


Love as Thou Wilt

by Reiya_Wakayama



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, BDSM themes, Espionage, F/F, F/M, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Indentured Servitude, Invasion, Language, M/M, Merlin Big Bang 2012, Merlin Big Bang Challenge, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con - Freeform, Sex, Slavery, Torture, Treason, Violence, War, alternate universe- fusion, major/minor character death, somewhat happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 10:34:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 141,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reiya_Wakayama/pseuds/Reiya_Wakayama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sold as a child by his parents in hard times, Merlin has known nothing but the walls of the Moonlight Court for the past five years. One fateful escape into the city and one sold bond-price later, he is thrust into the world of the five kingdoms. Now he must learn to navigate the political side of life, keep his magic under control and stop a plot that means to not only kill a king but to topple the five kingdoms themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> My Merlin Big Bang 2012 fic. Thanks to for the help and the pokes with a sharp stick that kept me going to finish this fic. Also thanks to for betaing this ginormous pile of words for me.  
> Here’s a big THANK YOU to my lovely artist who added awesome art to this enormous piece of words. Here is the master post for their art: [HERE](http://van-maniac.livejournal.com/11417.html).  
> This fic is based off of the book Kushiel’s Dart by Jacqueline Carey. Any and all references to the story are hers as are all Merlin references belonging to BBC. I’ve mostly just taken Merlin and the plot of Kushiel’s Dart and thrown them together in a big mess on paper and made a story out of it. One thing I did use from the book is the naming style. So names will be different from the original Merlin show. The title is taken from a line in the book.

**Part 1**  


The sun is beating down outside. He can see it through the open window, though inside, the small house is cool. It is midsummer and noon, the hottest point of the day when many take their rest and midday meal while the heat passes by. Inside the house, five year old Merlin watches his mother Hunith and father Balinor argue with bound, lined parchment and quills laying on the table between them.

This has been happening more often lately. Merlin remembers his father saying something about bad crops and low funds, but he doesn’t know what that means and doesn’t ask. Balinor is frustrated; Merlin can sense it, even though the man has spent most of his time holed up in his workroom. When he does that, Hunith cries, softly and Merlin hugs her legs until she stops, eyes red.

This is the worst Merlin has seen his parents fight though. Balinor tugs at his hair in frustration, a few strands coming away in his fists. Hunith is sobbing and sending desperate glances at Merlin like she’s afraid he’ll disappear. Eventually they calm, Balinor holding his wife as she sobs into his shoulder. Merlin doesn’t know what they’re talking about, but he’ll know soon enough.

~*~

The cart ride into the city has him staring wide-eyed all around him. Merlin stands on his father’s lap, small chubby arms around his neck and watches the world pass by. Next to them, Hunith weeps softly, hand pressed to her lips to stop any sounds from escaping.

They stop before a large building, a tall wall surrounding it. They get out of the cart and Balinor sets Merlin down. He stares at his son for a long time, eyes wet and pained. Finally, Balinor hugs him, for the last time though Merlin hasn’t realized it yet. He quickly hands Merlin off to Hunith, breathing heavily as he fights with his emotions.

A large wooden gate bars their way and it slowly opens to let them through. Merlin glances back at his father, blue eyes wide, wondering why his father isn’t coming with them. They’re led down a hall, one side open to the sunlight and the gardens of the place.

Someone is waiting for them in front of another door and open the door for Hunith and Merlin. There are two people in the room, a woman seated on a throne-like chair and a man standing behind her on her right. The windows are open to let in the afternoon breeze and lamps burn in the corners of the room, the lamp’s mirrored backs reflecting the light all around them.

Two chairs wait for them and Hunith helps Merlin onto his. He sits on the edge, swinging his feet as he wonders why they are here. “This is the boy?” Dame Alexandra Fors asks. She is the Head of the Fire Court branch of the Moonlight Court, seated in the outer rim of the city of Camelot. She is a striking woman, with fair skin, bronze colored hair that shines in the light and luminescent green eyes that see every little thing happening in the room. Behind her is her Second Damas Cœur. He is tall, his skin tanned into an even bronze, and his dark hair cut close to his skin. Golden rings protrude from his ear and nostril.

She beckons and Damas steps forward to help Merlin off of the chair, keeping a large hand on his shoulder. His smile is friendly when Merlin looks up at him. Though her demeanor is severe, her touch is gentle as she runs soft hands over Merlin’s pale face. His dark locks are cut short, his skin fair. She tilts his chin up to look into his eyes and jerks back. His eyes are a dark blue and studded in the blue, like stars, specks of gold wink back.

She lets him go and straightens as Damas leads Merlin back to his chair. “So what I have heard is true. He will not be able to serve in the Court, not completely. No one would be willing to buy his contract with a rumor of being cursed or possessed hanging over him.”

“My lady—,” Hunith starts.

“He is fair and when he grows, he may even be something worth praise. He is also Court-born; though you had bought your freedom by the time he was born. He may fetch a sizeable bond-price. For your years of service to the Court, I am willing to buy his bond,” Alexandra says, her green eyes hard as emeralds.

Hunith sniffed, “My lady, thank—,” she tries to speak again.

“There are conditions that must be followed if I am to buy his bond.” Hunith stares at her, trembling slightly, slowly she nods for Dame to continue. “No word of this transaction must leave this room. You will not be allowed to see him. The moment you leave this room, his existence as your son will be wiped from record. For all purposes, the next child you have will be your first. I will not let it be known that the Fire Court has taken in an unwanted whore’s get.”

Hunith gasps softly, her face pale, trembling harder as she shifts her gaze from Dame to her son. “He is not—,” she starts again.

“It is my only offer.” Hunith’s lips tremble as she stares at her son hard. “We will raise him as our own. Any abilities he might show during this time will be noted and when he is ten, his bond-price will be admirable. Can you offer him anything more?” Slowly Hunith shakes her head.

Merlin stares into his mother’s eyes, such a rich brown and she stares into his blue. A soft sob falls from her lips and she pulls him forward into a hug. “I’m so sorry, Merlin. Please forgive me what I must do.” Merlin clutches at her dress, tears coming to his eyes in response to her sobs.

Slowly, Hunith stands, extracting herself from Merlin’s hold. “Take him,” she bites out bitterly. Letting Merlin’s hand go, she steps back and Damas steps forward, large hand settling heavily onto Merlin’s thin shoulder.

“Mama?” Merlin asks with his blue eyes wide as he starts to realize what is happening.

“Come, little one,” Damas says, starting to lead Merlin away through another door.

“Mama?” Hunith has her back to him as she walks out. “Mama!” Merlin’s crying now, tears running down his cheeks, but Hunith doesn’t turn, though her shoulders shake with sobs. Merlin’s last image is of Hunith walking away from him before the door shuts behind her.

“Come, Merlin. It’s all right, everything is all right,” Damas is whispering as he tugs Merlin through the door. The door shuts and Merlin’s life in the Moonlight Court begins with the end of a transaction.

~*~

Life changes for Merlin after that. With his mother and father gone, he is alone in the Moonlight Court. Although many think life in the Court is nothing but fun and pleasure, they don’t seem to realize that behind the silks and precious metals and stones and wafting incense, it is just business like any other.

There are no servants to keep the place running. Every member puts their own into keeping the place running, even the children. Merlin quickly falls into his role. Between their lessons, he and the other children are put to work. Most often, they are sent outside with one of the older members to help weed the gardens, small bodies and hands much more adept at snagging the clinging weeds.

There are four other children his age. Anna is about his height, but is blonde and blue eyed with rosy cheeks and dimples. The older women in the kitchen coo over her and ply her with sweetmeats. Then there is Ywain. He is a year older than Merlin’s five years and already growing. His dark locks curl loosely around his head and his throat seems to sing pure music. He is already apprenticed to a chorus master and is soon to be singing on stage.Dorian is more like Merlin in looks, with dark hair and fair skin. His eyes are near black and he rarely smiles. He likes to spend more time in the library than any of them, reading books until his eyes cross from exhaustion. Then there is Gwen. If Merlin has favorites, she is his. She has long curling locks and pale brown skin and when she smiles, it is with everything she has. She doesn’t treat him like the other members of the Court do. Most look at him and see his eyes and turn away as if afraid of him. She holds him when he cries, for his mother, for his father, for a home he will never see again except in his memories and dreams.

But life goes on and soon his sixth birthday comes. Merlin has been dreading this day. It is the day they test him, as all members of the Court are tested, to see if he has magic. There are stories of how the Moonlight Court hadn’t always been the way it is now. It used to be that the five Courts, one in each of the five kingdoms, were centers for magic users to gather, to learn and to teach. Apparently, back then magic had been everywhere. Now though, really only about half the members of the Court have magic and only a handful of them have any real power.

Merlin dreads it though. His mother had tried to test him, teaching him spells and rituals and incantations and none of them worked. Oh, he had magic, but he had no control over it. It seemed whenever he muttered a spell, the magic thrumming through his veins went off and did something totally different. It is just another thing about him that sets him apart from those in the Court.

So when the summons to Dame’s study come, he cringes a little. Following behind Damas, he slides into her study, staring at his feet and refusing to be the first to speak. “Sit, Merlin,” she says softly, dismissing Damas. “You know why I have asked you here,” she says him. Merlin nods. “Good, then I don’t have to explain. On the table in front of you is a book, please look at the first spell and read it out.”

The book she mentioned is already open and sits on the wooden table next to a bowl of water. Hladan is written in neat handwriting. Next to it is a description of what the spell does: To draw (summon) water to the caster. It is a simple spell, maybe nothing will happen when he tries to cast.

Taking a deep breath, Merlin lets it out slowly and speaks clearly as his mother taught him to do with spells. One mispronounced word could turn a good spell into a bad one. He holds his breath, waiting for something to happen. Nothing even moves in the room and he sighs in disappointment. “One more time please and concentrate this time,” Dame instructs.

Merlin nods and stares at the bowl of water. He wants the water, needs the water to come to him. Mother had said a person’s will and how much they wanted the spell to work is just as important as having magic. If you didn’t want the spell to work, it wouldn’t work. He tries again, “Hladan,” he whispers and something in his chest expands, like he just stepped outside under the sun after being stuck inside all day, feeling the warmth caress his skin.

He doesn’t realize he has shut his eyes until he opens them, and instead of seeing the water floating above the bowl like it is supposed to be doing, the bowl is on fire, or more specifically, the water is on fire. Except the wooden bowl isn’t burning and there is no smoke, just bright blue flames that flicker and flare. The light seems to grow brighter now that he is actually looking at it, like the flames want his attention.

Something tugs at his hand and he reaches forward. Hesitating for a moment a few inches away, he slides his fingers into the flames. They don’t burn his skin; the heat is lukewarm, like putting your hand into warm water. The flames touch his skin and it tickles and he can’t help but giggle a little.

Dame whispers something and the flames die down and flicker out. The bowl is still as it was and the water is unchanged by the heat. Merlin dips his finger in and finds it cool. He looks up and sees something he may never see again. Dame stares with abject amazement.

She quickly composes herself and calls Damas back into the room. She turns to Damas and he must see the wonder in Dame’s eyes for he just looks at Merlin before looking back at Dame. “Send word to Kilgharrah nó Emrys. There is something he would like to see,” Dame says.

~*~

The day before Kilgharrah is supposed to arrive Merlin does the one thing he hasn’t done yet. He leaves the Court. The back wall has a trellis along it and though it doesn’t reach the top of the wall, its vines do, and work just as well as hand and foot holds as the wooden structure does.

When he’s over the wall, he looks back and realizes that he can’t get back in by that way, but he’s not too concerned with it. This is the first time he has seen the city in over a year. The last time was when he arrived with his parents and they came from the country side into the city. He’s never been into it proper.

From the hill that the Court sits on, the city looks up close but as he looks further, one thing catches his eye. He’s seen glimpses of it from the higher rooms, but never such an unobstructed view. The castle sits in the middle of the city like a shining beacon. Its white walls gleam in the morning sun and the red of its flags fluttering in the breeze only enhances the magnificence of it.

Deciding to use it as his focal point, Merlin starts walking. It’s not until he’s at the bottom of the hill that he realizes that his vantage point misled him. The city is closer than it seemed and there’s so much of it between him and the castle that he thinks it would take days just to reach it by walking.

Still, he keeps walking. There are shops everywhere, and people, so many people of so many different origins. The streets are hard packed dirt between buildings in the alleys and cobblestone on the main parts. Debris and refuse litter the ground and it smells bad compared to the perfumed halls of the Court, but for once it feels real and not like something created by herbs and incense. This is life, this is what it smells like.

Pretty soon, he’s lost, but he’s not too scared because he can still see the castle standing proudly over the city. Eventually, his stomach starts to grumble, making him aware of the little he had eaten for breakfast. He had been too nervous about Kilgharrah’s arrival to eat much. He’s regretting it now.

He comes to a stop as the smell of pies wafts through the air. Turning, he follows it and pushing through some crowds, he stumbles into a small square where the smell is coming from. There are tables and stalls and booths with everything from food – which smells really good and is making his stomach grumble – to fine cloth and jewels.

Following the scent from earlier, he ends up near the edge of the market where a line of food sellers are hawking their wares. He doesn’t even think about it, just reaches for the closest pie. A fat hand wraps around his wrist as a pudgy face comes closer. “You’d best ‘ave the coin t’ pay fer that, sonny,” the face booms out, startling him. Her teeth are brown and black and her face is red and panic wells up inside his chest.

He pulls against her hold and the pie slips from his fingers to land on the filthy ground, gravy and bits of meat and vegetables splatter his leggings and shoes. “Now look what ya done, you idiot!” she screeches at him, but in her anger, her hold has loosened and he wrenches his wrist from her fist.

She screeches, literally screeches, like some sort of animal as he stumbles away and she starts to charge him. People try to grab hold of him, but he wiggles out of their grasps, breathing fast and trying not to cry. A woman manages to grab him and he looks up at her afraid and she lets him go as if he burned her. “Psst,” someone hisses from nearby.

He looks up just as a grubby hand reaches between two men and snags his arm, tugging him between them. They give a yell, but Merlin is already running, the boy holding his arm tugging him down a side alley. They run for what seems like forever before the boy comes to a halt somewhere quieter.

Merlin’s shaking, but he’s getting control of himself. He needs to have control of himself, or else his magic might do something. It’s done it before. The other boy is laughing though, doubled over as his whole body shakes, shoulders trembling as he clutches his sides.

Eventually, he stops and straightens back up. He grins broadly at Merlin, his brown hair brushing his shoulder and his eyes screwed up in mirth. “That’s the most fun I’ve had in a while. The name’s Gwaine.” Gwaine holds out his hand and Merlin takes it.

“Merlin,” he says back.

“I take it you’re not from around here, are you?” Gwaine asks.

Merlin shakes his head, “I…I’m from the Court.” Glancing around, he can’t see the Court or the castle, the walls of the buildings around them too high to see over.

Gwaine whistles, “Never been in the Court before. I live on over off of Wyvern Lane, over by the breweries.” Gwaine stops speaking as he finally looks at Merlin. “You’re eyes, they’re,” Merlin tenses for a scathing remark, “sparkly. That’s pretty neat. Why are they like that?” Merlin’s thrown for a loop and just shrugs. He doesn’t know what they mean. “Are you gonna become one of the big members of the Court when you’re older, like some of the ones that see to the Royals and nobles?”

Merlin shakes his head no. “Why not?” Gwaine asks him.

“My eyes, people think I’m possessed or cursed or something along those lines. No one wants a cursed bed partner. The Court plans to sell me when I come of age.” Merlin shrugged. He’d already been sold once and he’d gotten over that pretty quickly.

Gwaine is about to say something when the clatter of hooves grows suddenly loud and a pair of guards ride into the alley they’re in. The crest of the Court stands out against the jerkins. “There he is,” one calls out and they ride down the alley.

One of the men easily picks Merlin up, settling the child in front of him on the saddle. “You’re in for wallop of trouble, you are youngling. You’ve turned the Court onto its head like a beehive looking for you. Dame is none too pleased with your disappearing act.” Merlin bows his head in shame.

“Out of the way urchin,” the second guard says swinging his quarterstaff lazily at Gwaine who dodges it like it’s nothing. They start riding away and Gwaine runs after.

“Merlin, remember, Wyvern Lane, down by the breweries. Ask anyone and they’ll point you to me. I’ll wait for you to come say hi again,” Gwaine’s calls fade as they turn one corner and then another. All too soon, the Court comes into view. Dismounting, the guard helps him off the horse, and though he’s gruff, he’s gentle with Merlin.

Damas is waiting for Merlin at the main gate. “This way,” he says with his voice devoid of anything that might give away what he’s feeling. Merlin waves dejectedly at the nice guardsman and follows Damas back into the Court. The gate shuts behind him with a solid thud.

~*~

Dame sits behind her desk, watching as he shuffles into the room. Damas closes the door and comes to stand in his usual spot behind Dame. Merlin’s a mess, leggings and shoes covered with bits of pie and mud. He can feel a streak of something on his cheek, but he’s not sure what it is or how he came by it.

Eventually, Dame closes her eyes, a large sigh escaping her lips. “That was very stupid, what you did, Merlin,” she says softly, looking at him. Her face is still severe looking but the skin around her eyes has softened a bit, like she understands the need for control of one’s life, even just for a few hours.

“I’m sorry, Dame,” Merlin whispers, but he’s not. For the first time, he felt free of the weight of the Court and the fearful glances that everyone sends his way. He’s seen the city and it seems he has acquired a friend as well. If given a choice, he would do the same thing all over again, pie and all.

“You could have been hurt or even killed. You’re lucky the guards found you when they did.” Merlin just nods. “You will be punished for this. Not only did you leave without permission, but you didn’t tell anyone where you were going and had us all worried.” Merlin waits for her to say his punishment. “You will go to bed without supper and you will apologize to the guards for pulling them away from their posts to go looking for you. Is that understood?” Merlin nods and she dismisses them.

Damas escorts him to where the two guards are and Merlin apologizes like instructed. Neither is angry and the one from before just nods and smiles before ruffling his hair good-naturedly. That night, he goes to his room, which he shares with the other children, without supper. Gwen comes after dinner with a round of bread hidden in a napkin and tucked into her pocket. He smiles and thanks her and eats it.

The next morning, the day of Kilgharrah’s arrival, he is taken by one of the older boys to the baths. Erec is eight years his senior and has already started his apprenticeship with the Court. In a few years, he will be inducted fully into the Court and will soon be able to start working to make his Mearcung. 

Erec sits and waits while Merlin cleans himself in the communal bath, washing sweet scented soaps into his hair. He has a towel waiting when Merlin climbs out and wraps him in it quickly. Clothing has already been set aside for Merlin to wear. It’s nicer than what he usually wears but then, he is only a child and the finer clothes are for the full members of the Court who actually work.

Erec straightens a sleeve here, a line there, runs his fingers quickly through Merlin’s still damp hair, combing it back. “Erec, who is Kilgharrah?” Merlin asks and the older boy looks down at him.

He eyes Merlin for a second before answering. “He’s a noble that is friends with Dame and that’s all you’ll hear from me,” he says. Finished, he leads Merlin out of the bath and to Dame’s room where Damas is waiting for them. Nodding in thanks to Erec, Damas grips Merlin’s shoulder and leads him into Dame’s room.

Dame is already waiting with someone new. He’s old, older than Merlin had expected. Lines crease his face, laugh lines and frown lines. His hair is a dark brown, but where the light touches it, it shines like brass. His eyes, when they flick to Merlin, are amber and seem to shine for a second. A pipe rests on the table between him and Dame, unlit, though the smell of smoke still lingers.

Dame motions them in and Merlin takes a seat while Damas stands behind Dame. “This is the boy you spoke of, Alexandra?” Kilgharrah asks, and his voice seems to rumble from his chest. Merlin starts at the sound of it.

Kilgharrah leans forward and Merlin follows his movement, wary of this man who might be interested in buying him. His eyes up close are even more golden than Merlin had thought and they look at him in kindness even as they trace every inch of Merlin’s face. A hand comes up, tracing under Merlin’s eye, light as the brush of a moth’s wing.

“Do you realize what you have found?” Kilgharrah asks. Dame does not answer and he goes on anyway. “A warlock, a genuine warlock; do you know why your eyes are like they are, Merlin?” he asks and Merlin shakes his head, too caught up by Kilgharrah’s words to be afraid. “Your eyes shine like they do because the magic in you has altered your body. Your magic is wild magic, a thing of nature and it changes all that it touches. Warlocks are even rarer now than they were in times past.”

He sits back abruptly with a rumbling laugh and the spell he has woven over Merlin is broken. Merlin blinks, trying to focus. There is a reason his eyes are like this. He’s not cursed or possessed or anything else as bad. It strikes him then and he feels weightless with this revelation.

Kilgharrah drains the goblet that Merlin just realized is sitting next to his elbow. “Have you set a bond-price yet,” he asks, eyes shrewd as they watch Dame. She smiles, in her element here. She rattles numbers off and Damas shifts, staring in shock at Dame.

“Done,” Kilgharrah replies easily. Dame frowns and shoots Kilgharrah a glare as she realizes she’s been played and could have asked for a higher price. “He will remain here until he turns ten. I will return then and take him to my home. Is this satisfactory?” Reluctantly, Dame nods. Kilgharrah turns to Merlin. “Well, young warlock, until we meet again.” Merlin can only blink as Kilgharrah stands and leaves the room with a nod of his head.

~*~

With his bond-price sold, all Merlin can do is wait until Kilgharrah comes to get him in four years’ time. Merlin’s schedule changes drastically, spending more time in the library, learning reading and arithmetic.

Twice a week, a teacher comes for all the children to teach them etiquette and proper manners and so forth. One must know the proper way to address a Duc or even a king, should such a meeting occur. He and Gwen would often spend time practicing on each other to get it right.

A month into his eighth year of life, a priest comes to the Court. Brother Dinadan is a robust man, with red, windswept cheeks and a beard that covered the bottom half of his face. He is a priest of the Old Religion, one of the few who dedicated their lives to keeping the balance in the world.

Brother Dinadan is a storyteller and he has come to give them the history of the five kingdoms and how they had come into being. He takes them outside into the garden. The air is warm and sweet, filled with the scent of the ripening harvest. They gather under a shady tree and listen as he spins his tales.

“Long ago, before the birth of Camelot and the other kingdoms, the land was ruled by turmoil in an endless cycle of bloodshed and war. The five clans fought and warred for land, resources, anything they could have, and none were willing to attempt peace, for too much blood had been spilt between them. This went on for many generations.

Then, one day, a wise man descended from the mountains where he had spent many years by himself, meditating on life and death and their meanings. His wandering paid off, for an idea had formed in his mind. He gathered all the clan leaders and elders and with much effort and hard debating, he persuaded the leaders to divide the land into equal portions. Each agreed to respect the boundaries drawn on the map and how each leader ruled over their land,” he told them.

“And the five kingdoms were created,” Dorian pipes up, listening avidly.

Dinadan nods at the boy’s words, “Just so. With the wise man’s help, peace was brought to these lands. Soon after, the man disappeared back into the mountains and was never seen again.”

“Who was he?” Gwen asks, leaning forward with wide eyes.

“There are many different ideas. Some say he was one of the Old Ones in human form, come to show the clans a better way at life. Others say that he was just an old wise man wishing for peace. But there is another legend about him. They speak of a man in the mountains who spoke with and commanded the Great Dragons themselves and through them, gained their wisdom. He was the first Dragonlord and many believe he was the one to teach the clans the Dragons wisdom,” Dinadan says with a lowered voice.

“What happened to the Dragonlords?” Merlin asks.

Dinadan looked to him, “They died off many generations ago when the last dragon died. If there are any left, none know where they are.”

“All right children, time to come in for lunch,” Miriam calls out from the door. “Tell the brother thank you for his tale.”

“Thank you, Brother Dinadan,” they chorus before standing.

“Do you think there are any dragons left?” Merlin asks as the others race for the door. Dinadan stands with a grunt, dusting soil from his hose.

“If there are, youngling, then they are well hidden,” he answers, ruffling Merlin’s hair before strolling off to get his own lunch. Merlin stands there for a moment, taking in the priest’s words. Shaking his head, he follows with his stomach rumbling with hunger.

~*~

Merlin spends the next few days, scouring the library, searching for any reference to the Dragonlords. He doesn’t find anything but the merest hint of them, just a brief mention in Camelot’s history and an even smaller hint in the five kingdom’s history. But his investigating is put to a stop when Dame learns of his searching.

“The Dragonlords are long since dead and you will not find them in our library,” she tells him from her spot at his usual table. Sighing, he nods, having already figured it is a useless quest for more information on them. She beckons him over, “Show me what you have learned of Camelot’s history in your quest for knowledge.” He dutifully sits and recites all he has retained. She smiles approvingly and gives him the afternoon off to do as he pleases.

There is one source he hasn’t tried. As soon as Dame has left, he leaves the library, making for the back wall. With ease, he scales it and is over before he can have any second thoughts. He hasn’t left since that first time, but he remembers Gwaine clearly, and the boy’s words.

Setting off at a light jog, he reaches the city proper in a few minutes. What had felt like forever to a six year old is only a short distance now that he’s older. It takes a few tries before he finds someone willing to point him in the right direction of Wyvern Lane. He knows he’s close when the smell of the breweries gets stronger.

But when he’s there, he’s unsure of what to do next. Buildings line the road and he’s not sure where to start looking for his friend. Seeing another boy about his age, he decides to ask him. “Yer lookin’ fer Gwaine?” Merlin nods. “Ye might be tryin’ in there,” he points to a low building, its door open and a sign hanging off of it, a mug painted onto the wood. “’e’s in there most oft’n.” Thanking the boy, Merlin walks away, staring at the building nervously.

He’s never been into a tavern before and it looks dark inside, but he wants to find Gwaine. Squaring his shoulders, he slips into the building, stepping to the side to let his eyes adjust to the low lighting. It’s loud inside with people scattered all over the big main room. A staircase in the back leads up to the second floor.

A hand lands on his shoulder and he jerks around, startled. Gwaine is standing behind him, grinning mischievously. “Merlin, you finally made it,” he yells over the din. Merlin nods, smiling back and Gwaine motions for them to go back outside. Merlin follows willingly, still nervous to be in this place.

They walk a little further down the road until Gwaine stops at a building. Taking the stairs, they climb to the second floor. A dim hallway greets them and is studded with a few doors. Gwaine stops at the last one, unlocking the door and letting Merlin in.

“I live here with my mother,” he says. It’s a small room with only a tiny window to let in light. A bed is shoved into a corner, a rough pallet next to it. “She’s a laundress. She’s working at the moment.”

“So how have you been?” Gwaine asks, sitting on one of the two chairs in the room, a small rickety table between them.

Merlin sits as well. “My bond-price was sold,” he admits, staring down at his hands. “That was the reason I left the Court the day we met. The next day, I met the man who bought it and I was nervous and wasn’t sure I wanted to be sold.”

“Oh, well that sucks.” Gwaine lays his hand on Merlin’s and Merlin smiles a little at him. 

“But I met you, so I guess that’s a good thing, then.” Gwaine grins at that. “What do you know of Kilgharrah nó Emrys,” Merlin finally asks.

“Emrys? Is he the one that bought your bond-price,” Gwaine asks and Merlin nods. “Well, he’s a noble, I know at least that. From what I’ve heard, he used to be really close with the Pendragons, but after the Queen died in childbirth with her son, Uther stopped seeing him. I hear he nearly banished Kilgharrah from the kingdom. No one knows why, but the old dragon, —that’s what they call him in these parts— keeps to himself mostly. So, he’s bought your bond-prince?”

Merlin nods again. “I met him the day after I met you. He seemed all right. He told me what my eye meant, though, and why they’re like this,” Merlin says happily. He tells Gwaine quickly the man’s explanation.

“A warlock? Wow, even us poor folk know tales of them. There’s a saying, that when a warlock is born into the world, it means change is coming. Good or bad change, none know.” Gwaine grinned at Merlin.

Merlin fidgets for a second before asking his second question, “What do you know of the Dragonlords?”

“Where’d this come from?” the other boy asks, leaning forward and Merlin quickly tells him about Brother Dinadan’s visit and tale. “Hmm, well, I’ve only heard tales about them. How they could command the dragons and talk with them. No one’s seen or heard of one in years and the same with the dragons. If you want, I could ask around, see if I can find out more,” Gwaine offers. Merlin smiles in thanks.

Gwaine stands, pushing his chair back. “Come on, I’m hungry. Let’s get some food, my treat.” Merlin tries to tell Gwaine he doesn’t have to do that, but the older boy just shakes his head and drags Merlin back down the stairs and into the street.

What Merlin doesn’t realize is that Gwaine’s treat means helping the boy steal some grapes while the vendor isn’t looking. They both run for it as the yells behind them grow faint and stop altogether. Laughing, they find a shady spot and divvy up the fruit. Merlin’s chin is stained purple from the juice and his hands are sticky by the time they finish.

A nearby fountain fixes that and they start walking in the general direction of the Court. They only get about halfway when the two guards from last time ride up to them. Merlin smiles sheepishly at them and turns to Gwaine. Smiling, he waves at the boy before letting the guard help him into the saddle. “Bye Gwaine,” he calls out as they start to ride away.

Dame isn’t pleased with his little escape and he’s sent to bed without supper again. The next morning, he’s put to doing the most labor intensive chores that a child can do. He’s tired and sweaty and dirty by the end of the day, and isn’t even allowed to have super again. His stomach keeps him up half the night with its growling.

Merlin’s third escape from the Court is a few months later. He finally meets Gwaine’s mother, a sweet lady with arms that could rival those of a man. She spent much of her time hauling heavy loads of laundry and scrubbing the linens against a wash board that she has become muscled. She just nods as Gwaine explains who Merlin is and gives him a nod before heading out to do her work.

The guards find Merlin on Wyvern Lane just as the two boys are leaving Gwaine’s small home. Waving to Gwaine, they take him back, but instead of releasing him, they march him to Dame’s office. Leaving him in the room, they shut the door behind him. Dame is behind her desk, face devoid of any emotion. “This is the third time, Merlin, that you have disobeyed the rules of the Court. Apparently, the last two punishments did not stick. I will have to make sure it sticks this time.” Motioning him forward, he comes around the desk.

“Drop your hose,” she says flatly. Merlin stares at her for a second but she’s not playing around. Slowly, he pushes his hose down until he is standing bare from the waist down. Grabbing his arm she pulls him across her lap.

He didn’t notice the paddle when he came in, but he does now as the wood lands heavily across his rear. He jerks, but Dame’s grip is strong and sure. The strikes go on, loud in the still room. By the tenth one, his breath is hitching. By the twentieth one, he’s crying and asking her stop, apologizing over and over. She keeps going until the pain blurs together and his rear and upper thighs are throbbing with each beat of his heart.

Finally, she lets him go, setting the paddle aside. He pulls up his hose with a sniff, his butt sore and sensitive. He jumps when she touches him, but she’s just holding a handkerchief to wipe at his eyes and nose. “I’m s-sorry,” he finally gets out.

“I expect you at dinner and no more escapes.” He nods glumly and leaves when she dismisses him. That night at dinner, he can barely sit from the pain in his rear and keeps his eyes down feeling like everyone is staring at him. In bed, he lies on his stomach, his arse still throbbing.

~*~

The winter of Merlin’s ninth year, he is allowed to attend the Midwinter Masquerade. Normally, he would have to wait until he turns ten, but with Kilgharrah coming to collect him then, Dame has allowed his attendance, a final gift to him before he leaves the Court for good.

By the time the day has arrived, the hall has been bustling for weeks. The Court is closed on this one day in celebration of the New Year. Merlin and the other children old enough to attend will be helping to serve, carrying the heavy silver trays laden with small glasses filled with clear liquor that has been distilled from the winter berries in the mountains.

Merlin is dressed as an ice nymph, the pale blue of his tunic and hose speckled with small golden beads. His mask is a simple thing colored the same as his clothing, its edges lined in gold. A few paper leaves, painted to look frosted, stick out to one side.

Gwen is dressed similarly, though she has a dress instead of tunic and hose and her hair has been woven with ribbons. Her mask is up at the moment as she sorts through her things, looking for something. She glances up and sees him standing in the door fidgeting. “Merlin,” she beams at him and beckons him over.

“Hi Gwen, you look good,” he says, sitting down on her bed.

“So do you. Of course, your skin is so fair, I wouldn’t be surprised if you are an ice nymph,” she teases and he sticks his tongue out at her. “Ah ha, here it is.” She pulls something out of her small trunk. “This is for you.”

Taking it, Merlin looks at it closely. It’s blue and when he touches it, the cloth is the softest he’s felt. Opening it, he looks at the square of cloth. “It’s a neckerchief, or handkerchief, whichever you prefer. I got it for you for a midwinter present as well as a goodbye present,” she admits.

“But I didn’t get you anything,” Merlin says, looking at her worriedly.

“You don’t need to, just promise me that when you use it you’ll remember me.”

“I promise,” he swears, and then hugs her fiercely. If it hadn’t been for Gwen, his life here might not have been as good as it was. He owes her a lot. “I’ll always remember you Gwen. I promise, if I can, I’ll come visit you. Promise you’ll visit me when you can?” She nods and then they pull away smiling. “The Masquerade is gonna be starting soon. We need to get ready.” Nodding, she walks with him to his bed, where he tucks the square of cloth into his own trunk. They head off to the kitchens where Cook is waiting for them to give instructions.

The ballroom of the Fire Court is near to bursting as all the people invited gather for the Midwinter Masquerade. Nobles from all over Camelot stand together, dressed in their finest with masks obscuring their faces. Merlin can see a hawk here and unicorn there and someone is walking around like a lion, mane and all.

His arms are just starting to tire from carrying the tray when a hush falls over the crowd. They all turn as the Winter Queen makes her appearance, dressed as a crone; she is bent nearly double, holding onto her walking stick.

A few applaud, but the rest stay quiet, waiting for the appearance of the Sun King. The main doors open and a group of men come crowding in. Bets have been placed on who would be asked to play the Sun King. Merlin wonders how many would have guessed at Dillon de la Escetia, prince of Escetia.

A murmur goes up as people start to talk but the prince ignores them. He has dark, curling hair that is tied back into a horse tail. His mask, a work of art made of gold-leaf and silk, makes him stand out. He is just approaching the Winter Queen when someone says something to Merlin and he turns to look up.

Kilgharrah is standing next to him, a small smile on his creased face. He is wearing a mask shaped like a roaring dragon. Washed in brass paint, each detail is exquisite and it shines in the candle light. “We meet again, young warlock.”

Merlin holds out his tray for Kilgharrah to take a glass. He knocks it back with ease, setting the glass back where it was, “Luck, young warlock.” A gasp goes up and they look to see where the Sun King has unmasked the Winter Queen, revealing the youthful woman beneath. It is Sarah, one of the girls who help out in the kitchens most often. Her brown hair is shining in the candle light, her green eyes glowing from under a mask of pure white silk.

“An interesting combination, don’t you think?” Kilgharrah asks him, “A prince and a serving girl.” He gives a huff of laughter at some joke only he gets. He looks down at Merlin. “Enjoy the Masquerade, young warlock.” Giving him a nod, Kilgharrah disappears back into the crowd. Merlin follows him for as long as possible before the man disappears from view.

Shifting his tray to one arm, Merlin reaches for one of the still filled glasses. “Luck,” he whispers to no one in particular. He drinks it like he saw Kilgharrah do. It’s sweet as it hits his mouth and then starts to burn as he swallows. Trying to keep from choking, he finishes swallowing the liquid. Slowly, he feels warmth flow through his body. Smiling, he heads back to the kitchen to exchange his empties for full glasses.

~*~

Soon after that night, the days began to lengthen as winter came to its close. Merlin watches the trees impatiently for new growth, wanting desperately for the cold to go away. He visits Gwaine one last time before his tenth birthday, though this time with permission to leave and a guard to take him there and back.

“Why were people so surprised by Dillon being the Sun King at the Masquerade?” Merlin asks him as they lounge in his small home. Merlin’s guard waits down below in one of the wine shops.

“The son of Cenred de la Escetia being chosen out all of the many other available nobles, and Camelot nobles to boot and you’re confused?” Merlin nods at him. “I’ve heard rumors that Uther and Cenred do not get along, no matter that they’re allies. And the fact that Cenred married Morgause le Fey, half-sister to Morgana the crown princess of Camelot does not sit well with Uther. Everyone knows that Morgana is Uther’s illegitimate daughter with the wife of his friend Gorlois, but with no wife and heirs, he had no choice but to accept her. Cenred married Morgause to flaunt that connection and the fact that Escetia royalty was in Camelot at all is suspicious by itself. No one knows why he was here or how he was chosen, so they wonder and talk and now the rumor mill is going.”

“Oh, that makes more sense now. Kilgharrah didn’t seem surprised though, when I was talking to him. In fact, he laughed like there was some sort of joke about it,” Merlin says, frowning to Gwaine.

“I don’t know about anything Kilgharrah might be involved in, but I do know this. Only two people made a bet on Dillon de la Escetia being chosen. No one knows who they were but whoever it was, they made a lot of money that night.”

~*~

On the day of Merlin’s tenth birthday, he is roused by Erec a second time and like his first meeting with Kilgharrah, Merlin is cleaned and dressed. When they exit the bathing room, Damas is waiting for them. Thanking Erec, he leads Merlin away, big hand resting in its customary position on his shoulder.

Stopping some distance from Dame’s room, Damas turns him and kneels. “You may not have come here willingly, young one, but I have watched you grow and I’m glad to have known you…even though you were a handful. Leave here knowing you have friends.” Damas ruffles his hair and stands with a final smile at him

Dame is waiting in the room, Kilgharrah seated across from her in the same position as before. Dame eyes Kilgharrah before looking down at the parchment in front of her. “Everything is ready, you just need to sign.” Kilgharrah nods and taking the quill, signs the parchment with a flourish. A wax dollop of wax is poured onto it and he presses his ring to it.

Dame motions Merlin over and looks him over, green eyes maybe a little wet, but it is hard to tell. She gives an amused snort, “I should have asked for more. Live well Merlin.” Giving his cheek one last part, she lets him go. “Until next time, Kilgharrah,” she says to him, nodding.

“I look forward to it, Alexandra.” Kilgharrah stands and leads Merlin from the room. Outside, he pauses next to Merlin. “Go pack your things; I will wait for you by the front gate.”

Merlin nods and heads back for his room. There is little to pack, just his clothes, a few knickknacks he has collected over the years. Buried at the bottom of his trunk, a little wooden figure rests wrapped in a handkerchief. It’s his mother’s handkerchief and the little wooden dragon is his father’s, carved for him for his birthday. All he has left to remember them by.

He tucks them away into his pack. Pulling out Gwen’s midwinter gift, he stares at it before tying it around his neck. It feels odd having it there, but the cloth is soft and he smiles. Finished, he shoulders his pack, staring at the room he has shared with the others for the last four years. Like his last home, he will not see it ever again. He hopes he’ll have his next home for much longer.

Kilgharrah is waiting, as he said he would be. Gwen and the other four are there as well as the guard and Miriam and Sarah and even Erec. Smiling at them, he comes forward to stand next to his new master. Gwen is crying a little but she hugs him fiercely. “Goodbye for now, Gwen. I’ll keep my promise.”

“And I’ll keep mine. Take care of yourself.” She steps back and with a gentle tug on his shoulder, Kilgharrah steers him from the Moonlight Court and into a new life. A carriage waits for them, led by a team of horses. Looking back once, he waves farewell and climbs in.  
  
~*~


	2. Part 2

**Part 2**  
  
In the carriage, Kilgharrah pats the seat opposite him and Merlin sits. Kilgharrah knocks his knuckles against the wooden shell of the carriage. Taking his signal, the driver sets off, the wheels clattering over cobblestone streets. Kilgharrah settles back into the cushions staring out of the window, its curtain drawn back.

Merlin waits edgily for something to happen, for the man to say something but as time passes, Kilgharrah ignores him, staring out at the view of the city passing by. Sighing, Merlin scoots to the other side of the carriage.

Sliding the curtain back, he peers out at the passing buildings. With the arrival of summer, the city seems to flourish. Trees stand bright and green; the streets washed clean by all the rain. Camelot is vibrant and thriving.

Slowly, they maneuver through the city, leaving the edge and working their way inward. And always, the castle stays in view, a shining beacon for the citizens of Camelot. They enter a better area of the city. While the Court is on the fringes of Camelot, in the poor section of the city; this place speaks of money.

Large buildings, with two even three floors, stand well back from tall walls that surround them. The carriage pulls up in front of one. It is a two story building. Behind its wall, Merlin can glimpse the bright greens and splashes of colors of a garden.

The driver comes around to open the door and Kilgharrah steps down first, his costly clothing still looking immaculate even after the ride. Merlin is just stepping down when a door opens and someone comes out.

Her hair is a rich brown and it falls in waves down to her shoulders. It frames a heart-shaped face that is a light peach color. Her eyes when she is close enough for Merlin to see them are a golden brown, like a cat’s and she appears to be his age maybe a year older. She smiles warmly at them both, giving a little curtsy as she comes to a stop.

There had been no mention of there being someone else here beside him. “Freya, this is Merlin. Please make him comfortable.” She nods eagerly and turns to Merlin.

“It’s nice to meet you finally. He wouldn’t let me come as well and I’ve been dying to meet you. Come Merlin, I’ll show you to your room,” she says. Freya grabs his pack before he can get to it and carries it inside. Looking at Kilgharrah, the man just smirks and nods in the direction she has run off to.

Sighing, Merlin follows her. She’s waiting for him at the base of the stairs and once he’s close enough, she takes off again, walking quickly up the stairs. She leads him to a room halfway down the hall, the door open and sunlight spills into the room through two huge windows in the opposite wall.

Setting the pack down, she turns to Merlin just as he walks in. “Do you have magic?” Freya asks him. Merlin nods and she smiles, “So do I. I was a Druid,” she pulls her skirt up slightly to show him the bottom swirl of an inked tattoo on her thigh. “After the Druid's threw me out, milord Emrys took me in. If it hadn’t been for him, I might not have survived.” Her story is sad, but she sounds happy.

Merlin can’t help but like her. She reminds him of Gwen, with her optimistic demeanor and ever present smile. She leads him back out and for the first time; Merlin actually pays attention to his surroundings. The place is big and airy; the walls are half wood paneled with a light colored wood, the other half is painted stone, the shade a pale brown.

The wooden floors, covered with plush rugs, do not creak as he steps, and everything is clean, as if someone has recently cleaned them. Someone is waiting for them as they reemerge from the hall. The man bows and Merlin realizes that this is a servant of the house. The man, his tunic bearing a crest of a curled dragon, leads them down the stairs and out where the center of the house has been removed and a cobblestone courtyard takes its place.

Plants grow everywhere, and part of the courtyard has a trellis overhead that shields it from the sun with interwoven vines. Kilgharrah is lounged on a reclining couch under the trellis, pipe in hand as he blows smoke rings into the trellis where they break up among the vines. A table is next to him, a pitcher of water, a skin of wine and goblets waiting for them on it.

“Welcome, Merlin,” Freya says, giving him a hug before falling back onto another reclining couch with a thump, a happy grin on her face. Pulling her legs up, she crosses them, the edges of her skirt trailing over pale legs.

Kilgharrah hums his welcome, blowing a smoke ring in Merlin’s direction with a smirk. Grabbing a goblet and filling it with water, Merlin sits as well, watching the two uncomfortably, waiting for them to explain why exactly he was bought. What use could a noble have of a child raised of the Court, someone destined to become a courtesan in pleasant wording, a whore in not so pleasant wording?

“Do not cast yourself so low, young warlock. In this house we are all equal. I only ask that you show each person the respect they deserve and that, when required, you acknowledge their rank, should they have any,” Kilgharrah says, seeming to read Merlin’s mind.

“You say I am your equal, yet you still own my bond,” Merlin tells him, studying the sharp golden eyes that watch him back. The lines around his eyes deepen as the man smiles, nodding to Merlin’s words.

“Yes, I own your bond, but I do not own you. And one day, you will make your Mearcung and you will remember it was I that helped you achieve this.” Sitting up, he pours himself a goblet of wine, sipping it as his sharp eyes watch the two of them.

“You just like having something to hold over people to get favors out of them,” Merlin bites out sullenly, but even then, he smiles a little at Kilgharrah’s shrewdness.

Kilgharrah gives a great guffaw, slapping his hand on his thigh in amusement. “A quick mind and an even quicker tongue, though you will need to learn to curb that before it gets you in trouble, but yes, I like favors. I also like helping those who need it, young warlock.” He pauses for another sip of wine. “Tell me, how far have your studies in magic progressed?”

“I learned what they teach the children there. I was about half way through the Gewrit Drycræft and I was just starting to study magical lore,” Merlin takes a gulp of his water.

“Hmm, so not too far behind Freya. Anything else?”

“I studied some history and Dame was just starting to show me some of the ancient runes of the Old Religion,” Merlin stares at the tip of his shoes, feeling uncomfortable for some reason.

“Hmm, a fine base to work with. You should be able to keep up with Freya in lessons. As for languages, we’ll start with Druidic. Theirs is similar to the Old Religion and the Drycræft Spræc. As well as Pictish, the language of the northern tribes.”

Merlin blinks in confusion. This is not what he has been expecting when his bond-price had been bought. Fiddling with the stem of his goblet, Merlin asks quietly, “I thought you would have wanted me to continue my Court education?”

Kilgharrah eyes him over the rim of his goblet. “I had not planned to force you down that path if you had no wish to continue your Court education. I am to understand from my conversation with Dame that you excelled in these studies. You are passible on the lute and your hand at art is smooth and steady and you have the ear of a singer, but not the voice,” Merlin flushes at this, “and you know your poetry. A tutor can be brought so that you may keep up these skills, but they are not the most pressing.” 

“They’re not?” With a snap, Kilgharrah dumps the ashes from his pipe into a small dish set aside for him. Refilling the pipe, he holds a taper out to a small lit candle and uses it to relight his pipe.

“No, although they can have their uses, it is what I will teach you that will become your most powerful tool. I will teach you to think for yourself, to see what most overlook, and to understand it in a way that will give you a better understanding of your surroundings,” Kilgharrah tells him, taking a long drag from the pipe.

“But what will that help me with?” Merlin asks, frowning.

Kilgharrah sighs, releasing a cloud of smoke. “When you look at this garden, what do you see?”

Is this a trick question? “I see a garden with a trellis full of vines.”

“Good, now Freya,” Kilgharrah nods to her.

“I see a well maintained plot. The soil is rich and fertilized and there are a variety of plants here that are not native. This speaks of someone who knows their craft and how to maintain plants from foreign soil. A specialist like that will have a high wage, which means that the person who employs him has money, enough money to not only get the plants, but to keep them alive, even in a different climate.” She smiles and Kilgharrah gives a nod of approval.

“Much better. You see what is right in front of you, young warlock. I want you to look deeper, to see more than what is on the surface. Understand?” Merlin nods reluctantly. “With these tools, I can be sure that you will go far in the five kingdoms.”

Suddenly, an idea comes to Merlin, Gwaine’s words echoing in his head, “Milord, did you place a bet that Dillon de la Escetia would play the Sun King?”

Kilgharrah lets out another guffaw, slapping his thigh again, holding his pipe away from his body as he shakes with laughter, Freya laughing with him. Finally, he seems to pull himself together. “Oh, young warlock, you will go far here.”

~*~

Kilgharrah is true to his word about lessons. The next day, Merlin is roused by Freya, drawing him from his bed to come down to breakfast. Kilgharrah, pipe as usual in his hand, is already dressed and seated by the time Merlin descends the staircase.

He informs them that their tutor will be arriving soon. After breakfast, Merlin and Freya spend the rest of the morning reviewing so that their tutor can gage where Merlin is. They pause only for lunch and afterwards start the actual lessons. The day is spent learning the history of the five kingdoms. By the time their tutor leaves, they’ve barely gotten past the division of Albion into the five kingdoms.

Merlin goes to bed with his head buzzing with words and facts that flash behind his eyes. He dreams of shining metal, the clash of swords, and a battlefield and rising above, a gleaming dragon roars to the sky. He wakes feeling lost, but before he can figure out why, Freya is knocking on his door and the dream slips away. Sighing, he calls out and starts to get dressed.

Days turn into weeks and they progress slowly but steadily. His lessons in Druidic go well and his continuation in Drycræft Spræc speeds by, Merlin swallowing whole chapters in a day. He had never realized there was this thirst for knowledge inside him. The one time it had appeared, Dame had stopped him and he never had the taste again. Now it sits like honey on his tongue, sweet and addictive. He soaks up the knowledge like a plant soaks up the sun.

Merlin feels a small stab of anger, briefly, at Dame. There is so much more he could have learned by now, but she had stopped him before he could start. Freya has had years to learn this and has already lived with Kilgharrah for two years, studying under him. With each day, he feels the gap between them get wider, even as he tries desperately to fill it.

It is the world of politics that confuses him the most though. Merlin has never been one for subtlety, always preferring the straight forward approach. He learns the hard way that not everything someone says is the truth.

While he has trouble just finding the truth in a snarl of lies, Freya seems to navigate court politics with ease, slipping easily from here to there. She can already give a full list of the lineage of the five royal families going back to the original leaders of the five tribes, all the noble families in each kingdom, even the familial connections between them.

Envy and jealousy bite at his heart, but no matter what, he can’t hate her. She has shared a small portion of her story with him and he knows that she has fought hard to get where she is. She deserves to be allowed to show off her knowledge. This understanding does little to sooth his pride though.

Kilgharrah often entertains, his guests ranging from associates to friends to enemies. As his guests lounge in the courtyard, Freya is there to serve wine, offering a cheerful smile that would have them asking for more wine than they would normally drink. Many left there drunk, not knowing the secrets they have left behind.

Merlin asks why Kilgharrah doesn’t have him serve. He has been taught how to serve by the Court. But the man shakes his head. “When people look at you, what do they see?”

“A boy, pale, dark hair, skinny,” Merlin says, not seeing where this is going.

“Yes, but they also see these,” he runs a finger under his eye, like he did on that first meeting. “They see these and they see the power in them reflected back. Many are nervous around those with power like yours, young warlock, which is why I hide you from them; it isn’t wise to show my entire hand. What do people see when they look at Freya?”

He looks over to where the girl is seated on a chair in the courtyard, head bent as she reads from a small brown book, “A girl.”

“Precisely,” Merlin’s still lost, and he frowns. Sighing, Kilgharrah explains, “Although an unfortunate perception in our society, many still look at young girls as naïve, dim. More likely than not, they will be more willing to spill a secret around her because they have no fear that she will use the knowledge to her advantage. They look at a pretty face and just see a pretty face. They do not see the mind underneath.”

“Oh,” Merlin says as something slips into place in his thinking. He’d always wondered how Gwaine did it, charmed all the people around him. This is the same thing. Understanding of what Kilgharrah is trying to teach him also blossoms. Knowledge is power and currency in the political world and being able to tell a lie from a truth is the first step needed to start collecting knowledge.

The guests all vary, from budding artists to nobles, all flock to Kilgharrah’s impromptu court. Kilgharrah has friends all over the five kingdoms. He is friends with Uriens de Isidore, Comte de Isidore and cousin to Cenred de la Escetia. Merlin learns later that Uriens has a knack for feeling his way through political snarls and that he is the one who tipped Kilgharrah to Dillon’s arrival in Camelot and his role in the Midwinter Masquerade.

Merlin’s life is never boring and it fills his days up. Merlin’s head steadily fills with knowledge, ideas, inklings, connections he could never have made before, and after each gathering with his guests, they all sit in the study, Merlin learning even more than he thought possible about what happened that he missed. Freya is thorough with her reports and though he is still a little jealous of her, he still crams the knowledge she gives him into his aching head.

It is through these impromptu lessons that he learns the second reason why Kilgharrah has kept him hidden in the shadows. Word of Kilgharrah’s second ward has gotten out and if there is one thing that will draw people in like moths to a flame, it is a secret. As Kilgharrah holds back, the more Merlin’s reputation grows. When Merlin is finally revealed, they will be falling over themselves just to see who he is. There is one though who appears to have been exempt from Kilgharrah’s teasing baited hook. The day Merlin meets Nimueh de l’Isle is a turning point in his life.

Three years have passed since Kilgharrah had taken him in and in this time, he has learned much. He has learned more history then he knew existed. His knowledge of magic and all that goes with it has expanded by bounds and leaps. He can speak passably in Druidic, Pictish, Drycræft Spræc, Hibernian the language of the inhabitants of the island to the west of Albion, and he can write and read these languages as well as having has learned so many different codes that he can barely read a book without seeing code in it.

At the moment, he and Freya are learning tumbling from a master that has arrived with a troupe a month before. Kilgharrah felt that it is time they focus on the physical side of life, so every afternoon, they take a carriage to a field outside the city where they are taught by the woman tumbler how to move.

They are learning different ways to fall when Kilgharrah arrives with a woman in an open carriage. Merlin’s first glimpse of her is upside down as he does a hand stand but even then she leaves an impression.

Her hair is a dark, lush brown that is pulled back into an intricate hairstyle, a few strands curling around her pale face. Her lips are painted a vibrant red and her eyes, when Merlin looks at them are a searing electric blue that seems to look right through him.

“Nimueh de l’Isle, may I introduce, Merlin nó Emrys, my ward. You remember Freya as well,” he gestures to the two of them.

“The Druid girl, I remember her well. A pleasure,” she says to Freya before turning to Merlin. Stepping forward, she seems to tower over him and he can’t look away or move as she reaches out. As her fingertips run under his eye, a spark seems to ignite something inside him and he feels something tugging him closer. 

It isn’t until later that he learns that that feeling is his magic reacting to Nimueh’s, like reacting to like, for her magic is wild magic just like his, though of a different branch. She smiles, a twisted upturn of the corner of her mouth and it never reaches her eyes. “Kilgharrah, you have been holding out on me. To think, that you have found yourself a warlock, you sly dragon.”

“I knew you would recognize him for what he is,” Kilgharrah says aloud, preening under her words.

“I was wondering what it was you were hiding. There’s a betting pool you know, of whom exactly your warlock is and it’s grown considerably in the last month or so,” she tells him, stepping away. Merlin nearly staggers as the magical connection is broken.

Kilgharrah smirks, arching a brow, “You made a deal with me not to tell. Not unless you want Lionel to know what really happened to his country home.”

“Now, now, no need to chastise someone for making a mere statement,” she says, tapping him on the cheek in play, a small smirk playing on her lips. “You should remember me when you decide it is time for his Rites. You do wish to have your Rites, don’t you warlock?”

The Rites are a time when a child of the Court comes of age. At this time, their virgin-price is sold to the highest bidder and the money is given to the owner of their bond-price. For those with magic, this is an essential moment, for it is when they came of age that their magic settles, using their partner as an anchor to guide them through their magic. It is considered an honor to be a sorcerer’s first partner.

“I…yes, milady,” Merlin mumbles, not wanting to be captured by her gaze again, he doesn’t look up.

“Good,” she says and he can hear the laughter in her voice. She and Kilgharrah head back to the carriage and Merlin and Freya stare at one another, unsure of what to make of her appearance. With nothing to do but their lessons, they push Nimueh’s presence to the back of their minds and focus instead on their tumbling.

~*~

The land of Albion is divided into five kingdoms. Camelot lies to the west, butting up against the sea and the mountains to the north. Camelot and Escetia, Cenred’s kingdom, guard the northern portion of the kingdom against the Pict, a fierce people that take pride in fighting and wear their life stories on their skin.

To Camelot’s east and Escetia’s south lies Tintagel. The Bois line rules there and it is where Camelot’s late queen was from. Still further south is Mercia. Mercia’s current king, Bayard, is an ally of Camelot and is a longtime friend of the Pendragon king. Acestir is the last kingdom and lies far to the south, ruled over by Godwyn. Also an ally of Camelot, the kingdom flourishes with trade. With sea on two sides and many rivers, its ports teem with people.

There are two things that tie the five kingdoms together: the Moonlight Court and the Round Table Brotherhood. Both are a hard path to follow and have become less popular among the people as time passes. Except those who show signs of magic, few children are fostered to the Court willingly. The Brotherhood is a harsh discipline. A warrior’s code is followed, and children are fostered at ten. Only the oldest nobles follow the custom of sending younger sons to the Brotherhood. The knights are protectors and once assigned to a charge, they guard their charge until death.

As Kilgharrah’s finger skims over the map, information floats into being in Merlin’s mind. He has learned much over the years and can read the map with ease. “Here,” Kilgharrah says and Merlin shakes himself out of his thoughts and pays attention. “This is where there has been fighting. Cenred has sent word to Uther of the Pict war parties raiding along the mountain’s edges. He was able to drive them back, but the Pict, it seems, are becoming restless.”

Merlin remembers Freya’s report from a few nights back. She had eavesdropped on a prominent merchant that had been invited to one of Kilgharrah’s gatherings. He’d apparently had to hire more guards for his caravans that were transporting iron ore from the mountains. Even then, he’d lost part of his train and a good portion of his guards to Pict raids.

“They haven’t been this restless since the Battle of Highpass so many years ago,” Kilgharrah murmurs.

“Where you there?” Merlin asks quietly, watching his master and mentor as he stares down at the map.

“I was young warlock. That was a sad day indeed. We lost many good men, including Gorlois le Fey. I was with the reinforcements that Uther had sent, but we were too late to save him. We paid greatly for the victory. It was ten months after that that Vivienne le Fay gave birth to Morgana le Fey, the current heir. No one commented on the affair between Uther and Vivienne, but he still accepted his daughter since he had no other heirs,” Kilgharrah tells them as he sits back, taking a drag from his pipe.

“Cenred fought there as well in that battle. To this day, I wonder if he held back when he was there to save Gorlois, but I may never know. All battles hang on the smallest things as do all major events. Remember to plan for any and everything. Preparedness can make or break someone.” He releases a sigh laden with smoke.

“You think Cenred let Gorlois die on purpose? Do you think he was trying to get the Pendragons?” Merlin asks, sitting forward.

“I don’t know. At the time, Cenred was not yet married to Morgana’s half-sister. Perhaps he knew of Vivienne’s infidelity and hoped to isolate the child of her and Uther. If he plans to use Morgause’s influence over her sister, I do not know. For now, we can only watch and plan,” he says.

“But what does it have to do with the restlessness of the Pict?” Merlin asks as he finally realizes why Kilgharrah had been at the Masquerade.

“It could be nothing, or everything. One cannot see how events will play out and even the seers cannot say for sure as the future is mercurial and constantly changing with each choice we make.”

“Do you think the Pict will invade?” Freya asks as Kilgharrah stands from his chair with a groan.

He smiles down at her, “No. The passes and borders are well defended and the Pict are a chaotic group. Each clan will only follow its leader and none of the clans are able to stand above the others. We will be fine,” he says as he steps around the table for the door, “There will not be another battle like the Battle of Highpass. We have improved since then, but it is still important to plan. As I always say–,”

“A good plan will always trump a good sword,” they echo back at him and he smiles.

“Go on, you’ve earned a rest,” he says as he steps out of the room and they scramble to follow.

~*~

“Emrys isn’t Kilgharrah’s real name,” Gwaine says as they sit in the back of the tavern.

“And you know of this how?” Merlin asks with a lazy smile at his friend.

“I asked around on my network,” Gwaine explains and Merlin lifts an eyebrow. “I wanted to know more about the man who took my friend away.”

“It’s not like I left the kingdom. I’m still in the city, you know,” Merlin informs, with a flutter in his stomach. He never knew Gwaine cared so much.

“As I was saying, Emrys is not his real name.” Kilgharrah has many secrets and Merlin isn’t surprised by this. Of course, it is hard to keep a secret around Kilgharrah as well. The first time Merlin had escaped to go see Gwaine ended in interesting results.

~*~

Merlin set off through the city, the map he had drawn in his hand. He kept his hood up, not wanting people to see his eyes. Walking, he made it, finally, to the lower city, where Gwaine lived. Gwaine of course had been in the tavern near his home.

After many hugs and time spent catching up what had happened since they last spoke, they spent the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon in mischief. After stealing a bunch of grapes for old time sake and talking with Gwaine’s mother while she worked, helping her out while they talked, they had settled back in the tavern.

Apparently Gwaine had made a name of himself since Merlin had last seen him, rubbing elbows with any and everyone who came into the tavern, knowing all the best gossip. Merlin glanced up when he heard Gwaine talking with someone and saw a boy, younger than them, nodding and waving a hand towards the entrance.

“What’s the matter?” Merlin asked.

“He says there a man outside with a carriage for you. His surcoat is bronze and black with a curled dragon on it,” Gwaine told him.

“Kilgharrah,” Merlin says softly and swallows. He’s not sure how Kilgharrah will react to his friend.

“The man says to send Daren to fetch him when you are ready to leave. Who does the Dragon think he is?” Gwaine muttered, sending the boy away with a wave of his hand. Gwaine had started to acquire a following of street children that he’d turned into a network of errand runners and messengers. Merlin really wasn’t surprised to know that Kilgharrah knew of Gwaine and their friendship.

By the time Merlin returned home, Kilgharrah was waiting in his study, pipe out and a smirk on his lips. “I’m not going to punish you, young warlock. Sit,” he pointed to the chair across from him. “Dame informed me of your habitual disappearing act. I like to know things, especially about those close to me.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin said, staring down at his fidgeting hands in his lap.

“And yet you are not,” Merlin looked up confused, “I do not object to your friendship with your charming young friend. In fact I encourage it. You might well learn things there and from him that you can’t here. I also do not mind the escaping, but the city is a dangerous place for a child. I will not let you wander it alone. When you have free time and wish to visit your friend, you will inform Will,” Kilgharrah informed him sternly.

Will was Kilgharrah’s man through and through. Merlin didn’t know his story, but the quiet man always hovered around the edge of life in the Emrys household, a silent guardian to all their secrets.

“That’s all?” He nodded. “He’ll follow me or have me followed,” Merlin said.

“I know, but please, try and lose them. If you can, I applaud your skill and will know you can take care of yourself. But you will still inform him when you leave these grounds, is that understood?”

“And if I don’t?” Merlin asked.

“I am not one to play games with you, young warlock. You may be equal to me in this house, but you will show me the respect that I deserve and if that is too much for you, I will sell your Mearcung.” His voice seemed to rumble like thunder through the silent room. Merlin nodded shakily. “Good, you may go.”

Merlin had left with a healthy dose of humility and the knowledge that Will would be watching over him from then on.

~*~

“So what is his real name then?” Merlin asks.

“That I don’t know,” Gwaine admits. “But I did find out something else. I know why Uther almost banished him.

Merlin’s ears perk up at this and he sits forward. “Why?” he breathes more than says.

“Do you know how the Queen died?” Gwaine asks with his voice lowered as he scoots closer to Merlin.

“Yes, she died in child birth, with her son Arthur.” It had happened a year before Merlin was born, but Merlin had learned much about history and the events that surround that event. When he had read that, he had mourned for the king. To lose both his wife and son on the same day must have struck a blow.

“Well apparently, the queen was barren and could not conceive. They had asked Kilgharrah to help them get a child, an heir. Kilgharrah agreed and succeeded, but after the queen and the prince died, Uther blamed Kilgharrah. Apparently, the guards had to restrain the king from killing him that day and afterwards, he was nearly banished from the kingdom.”

“Is he an enemy of the crown?” Merlin asks, wide-eyed.

“No, if he were, he would have been banished or even executed. He is still welcome at the Court. Someone with influence protected your master, that’s for sure.”

“How did you learn of this?” Merlin asks.

“One of my boys has a friend who is a stable boy in the castle. He overheard one of the nobles speaking.” He grins at this. “I will try to find out for you, Kilgharrah’s real name.”

“You will rue the day you get your answers,” someone says behind them, but when they turn no one is there. Merlin shivers, eyeing Gwaine. The other boy shrugs and they go back to their drinks. The words though would not leave his mind.

~*~

Merlin’s fourteenth birthday has passed when Kilgharrah summons him to his study. For once, he is not smoking his pipe, the pipe resting on its side by his elbow. His face is calm as he motions Merlin to not the chair opposite him, but the one next to him.

Wondering what Kilgharrah could want, he sits and waits. Kilgharrah stares back, his eyes seeming to glow slightly in the dim lighting of the study. Finally, he seems to stir as if from sleep, a statue coming to life before his eyes.

“I have something to ask and I will have you answer truthfully,” Kilgharrah says and Merlin nods. “Is it your wish to take your Rites as a member of the Court?”

Merlin blinks, not having expected this. He has come of age to start studying for his Rites. Normally, he would have started the year before if he had still lived in the Court and would have studied and trained in both the art of magic and pleasure for the next four years. He had figured Kilgharrah wouldn’t have wanted this, seeing it as a drain in his other studies.

“If that is –,” Merlin starts.

“No.” Merlin stops, his teeth clicking as he shuts his mouth. “This is not about what I want. Tell me truly, is this what you want? You may refuse if you wish.”

Merlin stares back, taking in the seriousness of Kilgharrah’s answer and the tension that he hides as he waits for Merlin to answer. Pulling a breath through his nose, Merlin releases it slowly and nods. “It is.”

Kilgharrah nods, some of the tension leaving his frame and the lines around his eyes seem to soften just a little. “Good. We will get an appropriate offering and travel to the shrine so you may pledge your magic to the Old Religion,” Kilgharrah says, giving his shoulder a squeeze, Kilgharrah stands and leaves, taking his pipe with him.

Freya is in his room when he slips in. When Merlin tells her his decision, she smiles gently and gives him a hug. “I’m glad. That means we can study together,” she tells him. Although not of the Court, she had pledged herself to taking the Rites earlier that year. She had told him that had she still been amongst the Druids, she would have had to do something similar.

“I am too,” Merlin whispers and hugs her back, placing a small kiss to her cheek that just makes her smile even more.

She grabs his hand and tugs him from the room and down the stairs where Kilgharrah is waiting for them. The carriage takes them to a nearby market where they select a few pieces of fruit, a fresh loaf of bread, and a couple honey cakes from the stalls there.

The ride out of the city is quiet, the open top allowing them a view of the trees as the forest swallows them up. Eventually, the carriage comes to a stop in a cleared out glade in the forest. A small stream runs along one side and on the other side are stairs carved out of the small mountain, slabs of stone acting as walls and forcing them in single file as they climb.

A few minutes later they reach the top, and the ground flattens out. Trees grow around them, hiding the shrine from those below, but leaving the sky open above. A lone bird soars high above, flying on the thermals.

On the other side of the flattened hilltop is the shrine itself. It’s a small thing, just a slap of stone with a small indention in its center to place offerings. A bell hangs behind it; a braided cord of flax connects to its tongue.

Walking over to the shrine, Kilgharrah reaches out and rings the bell once, the chime suddenly loud in the stillness of the shrine. As the last echoes fade, a priestess steps out of what seems to be nowhere, her face serene as she looks at them.

She is wearing a simple dress of woven wool; the material dyed a dark brown. She has pale blonde hair that falls around her shoulders in waves and braids, a few feathers and leaves woven into it, peeking out from under strands.

“Welcome,” she murmurs, bowing her head slightly.

“One among us wishes to pledge themselves to the preservation of the balance,” Kilgharrah says, his voice low.

“Then let them step forward of their own volition and pledge themself.” Merlin takes a breath and steps forward. She smiles at him. “Welcome, brother. It is your wish to pledge yourself to the balance?”

“It is,” Merlin says.

“Then place your offering on the altar.” Merlin steps forward, holding the bag that carries their offering. He gently places the items in the dip. She walks to his side and stands there, a hand on his shoulder. “Do you promise to uphold the balance, to work in protecting it?”

“I do.”

“Then welcome, brother. May the balance always watch over you,” she says and reaches forward to ring the bell. It peals loudly and something inside him seems to at last slip into place. Some missing piece falls into its position and Merlin feels his magic suffuse him, filling his veins.

As the glow seems to fade, he shakes himself, bringing himself back to reality. The priestess has gone and Kilgharrah and Freya are watching him closely. Turning from the shrine, he walks back over to them. Freya just hugs him again and they descend the stairs again without speaking.

The ride back to the city is filled with inane talk of upcoming events and celebrations. Merlin talks, but inside, he can still feel the subtle pulse of his magic, as if for the first time it has been fully awake. The whole ride, he can’t keep the small smile off of his face.

~*~

When Merlin asks later what it was he had felt, Kilgharrah motions to couch in the courtyard. “Young warlock, you are a creature of magic. As such, you have a connection to nature as well as the balance. Since you were born, a part of you has been cut off from these links, if only partially. When you dedicated yourself to the balance, you removed these blocks and opened these links and in sense your magic as well. This was one reason why you had so much trouble with spells. Without full accesses to you magic, you could not fully do magic.”

“Oh,” Merlin says, feeling a weight lift off of his shoulders. He’d always wondered if there was something wrong with him when his magic wouldn’t work like it was supposed to.

“The balance is not fickle or cruel. It has its reasons for what it does and only waits for the right moments to act to create the best possible outcome. Always remember, patience is not a weakness. Sometimes the act of waiting is in itself a better option than action. Remember that, young warlock.”

“I will,” Merlin says, nodding.

Kilgharrah has held off on teaching Freya until he had been sure Merlin wanted to do his Rites. Now, he begins in earnest. Later that week, he announces over breakfast the first step in their learning. “I have talked with Dame Alexandra Fors,” here he looks at Merlin, “and she has agreed to arrange a Viewing. Her words precisely were ‘I will not allow one of my charges go uninitiated into the arts of homage to the Balance.’”

Kilgharrah is smirking at this and Merlin looks down to hide the small smile on his lips. He can see the expression on Dame’s face as she spoke those words and though he still hasn’t forgiven her in her role of his ignorance, he still loves her for her willingness to raise him despite the stigma that lay over him.

That afternoon, they ride over to the Court where Damas is waiting for them. He nods to Kilgharrah and looking at Merlin and Freya, gives a smile. The moment they step into the Court proper, Merlin is assaulted by a warm body flinging itself at him.

He can’t help but grin, hugging Gwen back as she tries to squeeze the breath from his lungs. Pulling back, he looks at her. She has grown as well and is starting to fill out. He can feel the subtle curves emerging on her where she is pressed up against him and she is even lovelier than he can remember.

Freya looks at him and he smiles at her. Pulling out of Gwen’s hold, he motions to Freya. “Gwen, this is Freya nó Emrys and that is Kilgharrah nó Emrys. This is Guinevere Bran or Gwen for short.” Kilgharrah just nods, but Freya hugs her, smiling.

Merlin looks up at Kilgharrah where he is standing next to Damas. “Go on, there is still some time before the Viewing is to start,” Damas says with a laugh and Gwen grabs both of their hands and tows them away further into the Court.

They’re in Gwen’s room, which she shares with Anna. Merlin and Gwen exchange stories of what has happened since Merlin left. They fade off into silence when all has been aired and finally, Freya talks. “How did you become a member of the Court?” she asks Gwen.

“My mother died soon after having me. Afterwards, my father came to the Court to talk with Dame. He realized that if something happened to him, my brother and I would have no one. He asked that I be allowed to become a member of the Court at ten and that should something happen to him before that day, that they take me in. Dame agreed and signed a contract for me. He did the same with the Round Table Brotherhood for my brother, Elyan. He died when I was four and Elyan was eight helping someone out of a burning building and it collapsed on him before he could get out. I came here and Elyan went to the knights. We see each other twice a year.”

They’re quiet as Gwen finishes her short tale. “I’m sorry,” Freya says and hugs Gwen around her shoulders. After a few minutes, they get up to go find Kilgharrah and Damas.

The room they are shown to is set aside just for the Viewings. Only members of the Court or those pledged to take their Rites are allowed to see a Viewing. Kilgharrah leaves them at the door and they walk down the three shallow steps into the room proper.

They aren’t the only ones there. A few who have come of age are there as well as some of the older members. Damas is seated in the back, keeping a watchful eye over everyone.

The seats circle a low stage, cushions placed for them to sit and be comfortable. Thin, gauze curtains obscure their view of the stage, candles placed around the room to allow dim light. As they settle onto their own cushions, the door closes, cutting off any light from outside and the candle light seems to dim until they’re sitting in semidarkness.

The room goes silent as a tapestry over the stage is pulled back and two people step out from a hidden door, the curtains pulling back one at a time until their view is clear. They only wear silken robes; the sashes tied loosely and the robes hang open slightly. The woman is dark, darker than Gwen’s own tanned skin, the low light adding a touch of warmth to her dark skin tone. Her hair falls in ebony waves down her back, her eyes a dark ocher that shines out from under dark lashes and kohled eyes.

The man is lighter, his skin the color of sun touched flesh, muscle rippling underneath. His hair, a dark russet, is pulled back in a small tail at the base of his head and limpid blue eyes peek out from under pale lashes.

Merlin, seated between Freya and Gwen, watches transfixed. As a child of the Court, he had grown up around this, had learned like the rest of the children that are bound to the Court. But he had never seen anything like this. It is hard for one to truly understand what is read in a book until one sees and experiences it for themselves.

And it is a sight to behold. With each touch and caress the two lovers share between each other, it feels like more and more magic is being drawn into the room. For a second, he thinks he can almost see the dart of magic between their skins where they touch, like static on a dry day.

By now Freya and Gwen are pressed against his side, holding his hands, both held in thrall by the spell that is being woven like a dance between the two lovers. They may not be sorcerers, but you do not need to be in order to offer homage to the balance. The act of a joining is always a magical occurrence, whether those involved know it or not.

As Merlin watches the man holds the woman gently, like she is something fragile, and precious. He presses into her, and something inside Merlin uncurls warmth that spreads through his body and stains his cheeks pink. But Merlin doesn’t look away, even as she arches with a soft gasp, hands clutching at his back. The man stills and groans and the magic seems to swell impossibly before it comes to a head in a burst of power before it dissipates.

Merlin’s panting by the end, more from the wash of magic than from what he just saw. His own magic churns, drawn to the magic that was just released and he has to concentrate to keep it from spilling out to mingle in the room.

Gwen and Freya steer him from the room. “That was…” He’s unsure of what to say or how to describe the sensation or the images. The two girls just nod; their own faces a little pink as well. Kilgharrah is waiting as they step out into the sunshine of early afternoon. It seems like ages passed in there but it has only been near an hour.

They stay for the noon meal, the fair simple but delicious. As they’re about to leave, Gwen hugs the two of them. “Can I visit?” she asks.

“Of course,” Freya says, Merlin nodding eagerly. “Send a message ahead and we’ll meet up in the city somewhere. Maybe when your brother is here to visit?” Freya says, remembering the bit about Gwen’s brother.

“Oh, that would be wonderful.” She hugs them one last time before letting go reluctantly. Waving one last time, the two step out of the Court where their carriage is waiting for them.

~*~

Soon after, Kilgharrah gets to work on their education in the arts of pleasure. Merlin is in the store room just off the courtyard when Kilgharrah meets with their chosen instructor. He can’t see her from his spot without giving himself away, but he can hear every word and rustle of clothing.

Kilgharrah has been teaching them to listen and gather information, so he will, even if it is against the man himself. His master and mentor is a mystery, one that he wants to solve. But Kilgharrah is tight lipped and evasive in his answers, often distracting them with riddles and words of “fate” and “destiny.”

Still, the moment he hears their tutor’s voice, he knows he will like her. Her voice is soft, each word spoken with care and reverence, as if each word is a precious jewel leaving her mouth. A breeze flows through the room and he can smell a hint of her perfume, the scent subtle and light.

He only knows her name, Kilgharrah having informed them the day before. Alice Verdant-Beau is a woman well into her fifties, but though her face is lined, her magic is still strong. Merlin has heard of her.

A natural healer in her own right, she had served in the Fire Branch of the Moonlight Court for many years, making quite a name for herself before she had finished her Mearcung and gotten her freedom. Soon after, she had opened up her own healing shop, helping people through both magic and natural herbal remedies. It was there she had met Gaius Beau, Royal Physician to Uther de la Pendragon and his family.

The two had married and though she had closed up shop to help her husband, she still saw to people who asked for her. And it appeared Kilgharrah calls on her now, though not as a healer. After the usual pleasantries and talk of health other such small talk, Kilgharrah makes his request to Alice.

“Are you sure you ask the right person, my dear? I am retired, have been for many years now from that life, though I still take offerings to the temple on the great holidays.” Merlin heard a click as she set her goblet down on a table.

“You took an oath, Alice. Besides, it is not your physical knowledge I seek, but your learned knowledge. There are many things I cannot teach them. There are books, Hyldu to se Frod Æfæstness, Geornful Drycræft and I’m sure you know the rest.”

“Should I also teach the boy of Draca Hygebend?” she asks softly, her voice like the sharpest steel.

“No!” Kilgharrah’s voice rumbles out like a rock fall, as if it rises from the very earth itself. “We both know that that knowledge is forbidden as well as being lost years ago. You know this.”

“I do, but what I wish to know is, what is it you plan, my dear? I will not be lied to in this, not with two children and who knows how many others on the line in your games.” Merlin hears the couch creak and knows Kilgharrah has stood to pace. Smoke wafts through the window, evidence that he has taken up his pipe.

“You are an ex-member of the Court and a healer, I’m sure you have this memorized,” Kilgharrah says lightly, a small smirk in his voice.

“You know what I ask?” Alice says, not rising to the bait.

Kilgharrah sighs and the couch creaks again as he sits down once more. “That is the question though: why? There are so many questions and so few answers, but this I can answer. There are places I cannot reach, people out of my range, though it was not always so. So many places in the five kingdoms were barred to me that day, but…,” he pauses to take a sip of his drink, the goblet makes a small noise on the wood of the table as it is set back down. “But, I know what they desire, what it is that fuels their passions and loosens their tongues. With this, I can finally reach them.”

“I have long known this side of you, my dear, but still you evade my question. Why do you do this?”

“You already know why,” he whispers and for the first time, Merlin hears regret in his master’s voice.

“You still blame yourself. Well, you always did hold yourself to high standards and the fact that you still keep this promise is no surprise to me. I will teach them what I can, but swear to me that both of your wards have given their consent when they dedicated themselves to this path.”

“Upon Draca Hygebend,” Kilgharrah whispers.

“And you talk about me speaking of forbidden things,” she says though her voice is fond now.

“What is the extent of their knowledge?” she asks.

“Enough to get by, but not enough to get them killed,” he tells her.

Alice sighs softly. “Ygraine de la Pendragon is dead, these many years, my dear. Do you honestly think she hasn’t forgiven you?” Alice asks.

“There are still amends to be made,” Kilgharrah answers and she just hums in acceptance.

“I do have news though. Duc d’Alene’s wound became infected, despite Gaius’s best efforts. He died yesterday. His son Valiant will become Duc d’Alene within the week. He has already petitioned Uther for reinforcements up north.”

“I’m sure he has need of them, with the north becoming so unpredictable.” There’s a clink as their goblets are filled again.

“Yet he still made time to visit Nimueh de l’Isle while she was visiting the Escetian court. And Prince Dillon seems to have become attached to Nimueh. No one can tell if Morgause de la Escetia is displeased or not.”

“Nimueh likes to collect hearts; she has a large collection, all broken of course. Uriens has said he will pass word to Cenred in hopes that his cousin can put some sort of leash on his son,” Kilgharrah says with a dismissive tone.

“Do not underestimate Morgause or Nimueh for that matter. Events in history have been changed by the hand of women as well as men and sometimes I think you forget that. Good day my dear. I shall return on the morrow to begin their instruction into the arts.” Merlin hears them both stand, their footsteps fading into the distance as Kilgharrah escorts Alice out.

Wiggling out of his hiding place, Merlin races on silent feet up the stairs to where Freya is laying on her stomach on her bed, reading. Putting their heads together, he tells her everything he has just overheard. Although they parse it every which way they can, some things are still left in the dark to them. Kilgharrah comes to the door to tell them of Alice’s acceptance and that they should expect her in the morning.

~*~

When Merlin finally sees Alice, it isn’t what he has been expecting. She is a small woman, her skin lined with age, but underneath it, he can see the beauty she had been when she had been younger. Her hair is a pale brown that is slowly fading into grey and is pulled back into a braid down her back. Her eyes are a kind blue that seem to always be smiling. She wears a simple dress that is made of fine cloth; a ring of gold adorns her finger.

She doesn’t hesitate to put them to work and soon both Merlin and Freya are ensconced in the study, reading from a book they have not read before. Merlin reads the words on the paper and understands with ease. He was raised to this and though his education is selective, he at least knows the basics, the rest he learned from listening in to the kitchen gossip.

Freya, on the other hand, seems amazed, absorbing each word with a relish. Merlin never realized how innocent she was until now, how much she lacks from this area of knowledge. It seems to lessen the gap still between them. Smiling, he helps her understand and together they work through the pages.

But though they take in the knowledge, they do not practice it. Although Kilgharrah has not told them not to, they can read what is not said. Still, it makes Merlin wonder how they are to become good at it, if they can’t practice.

Alice seems to read his thoughts though. “You wonder why Kilgharrah does not want you to practice?” she asks as they sit outside sipping tea.

“I just…I can feel it in me, my magic, wanting out and it makes me itch and I want to scratch but I can’t. Sometimes at night, I feel like I’ll explode from all the magic inside,” Merlin admits.

“Unfortunately, all sorcerers feel this, though you more than most. There is a reason why Kilgharrah does not wish you to practice though. The act of homage is a spell, though there are no words. With those whose powers have yet to fully awaken, sometimes, when they try, their magic gets out of control and things happen. It can be dangerous and he only wishes to protect you two from yourselves,” Alice says, setting a gentle hand on his arm.

“I just wish I would stop itching,” Merlin says and draws a laugh from Alice.

“Don’t we all.”

~*~

Two years go by like this, the two learning and studying and gathering information. Merlin goes through a growth spurt in this time and now stands taller than both Freya and Alice and is almost as tall as Kilgharrah and Will. Slowly he fills out, no longer the skinny child with too big ears. Freya has also grown taller, filling out, curves rounding even more and leaving a beautiful young woman where there had only been a young girl. Her hair reaches down to her waist now, kept in line by ribbon and braiding.

They aren’t the only ones. Gwaine has grown, growing broader in his shoulders and chest. His hair is still long and a scruff has started to grow along his jaw, giving him a roguish look that has women and men alike taking notice.

He meets up with Gwen and she has grown as well, her hair almost as long as Freya’s and her body filled out. Soon she will start working towards her Mearcung and her freedom. He also meets her brother Elyan once. He is darker than Gwen, his head shaved close to the skin. His eyes are a dark brown and his full lips are prone to giving smiles. He is heavily built from years of training as a knight and the crisp black of his tunic shows the crest of the Round Table Brotherhood: a pair of crossed swords over a shield with the image of a flowering tree. A scroll underneath is has small letters sewn on it: Lifwraþu, protection of life.  
  
They are seated at a small table soon after her brother’s departure back to his lodgings. Gwen seems sad, but she still smiles at Gwaine’s jokes. He had introduced the two of them earlier and his two friends seemed to get on well.

They are sitting quietly when someone yells out, “Oy, boy.”

They look up to see some drunken idiot, a lordling trying to be adventurous by coming to this part of the city. He swaggers up, swaying with his drink, a cocksure grin on his face. “How much for your friend here?” he asks Gwaine and doesn’t indicate which of them he means. He chucks a purse onto the table. Merlin feels a spark run through his body and his magic tingles at his fingertips. He has been feeling its press more and more lately. How easy it would be, to just slip away with some random stranger, to let this be done with and be free of this itch that seems to suffuse his body.

Gwaine’s face is thunderous and he’s about to stand when a quiet voice says behind the lordling, “There is no one for hire here, my good man. Best take your money and spend it somewhere more…accommodating.” The man swallows, quickly sobering up now with a knife pressed low on his throat. Merlin wonders when Will had arrived let alone how he had known what the man was asking.

The man scurries away, swiping up his purse. He and his friends leave the bar, sending looks their way as they stumble out of the building. Will watches them until they are gone before turning back. “It is time to go.” He has the look of seriousness about him, so Merlin doesn’t argue. Giving Gwaine a hug and Gwen a hug and kiss on the cheek, he follows Will out, pulling the hood of his cloak up.

The carriage ride home is quiet. Will is watching him quietly, eyes unreadable. “It is not always for us to choose,” Will says. Merlin starts, looking up at the man. He is plain looking, short brown hair, brown eyes, and square face. He has frown lines around his mouth and his eyes see the world from a different perspective.

“I was fourteen when my father was killed protecting his charge. He was a knight and he died for a noble who then turned his back on me and my mother when we had nothing left. For years I hated all nobility. Eventually, my anger and restlessness led me to the city and I fell into a bad crowd. I gambled and drank and racked up a debt to a man who used my skills that I learned from my father and my brief start amongst the brother’s before I quit. I have done many things that I will regret for the rest of my life. Then one day, he comes to me with a job to assassinate a noble.”

Merlin’s heart beats harder. “Kilgharrah?”

Will goes on as if Merlin hasn’t spoken, “Something inside me rejoiced, to be able to take out my hatred on a noble. I waited for their carriage to stop and attacked. I was disarmed and waiting for the death blow when he spoke, ‘You fight for the wrong reason, my boy. Whatever has happened to harden your heart so, you will not find relief from the pain on this path.’ Something seemed to let go then and I realized my grave mistake.”

The carriage is silent as Merlin waits for Will to continue. Outside, night has fallen and there are only a few out. The sound of the horse’s shoed feet is loud in the quiet. Finally, Will continues, “Milord Emrys saved me that day and took me in when few would have. I owe him a great debt, as do you and while yours may one day be paid in full, mine will not be until my death. Do not betray his trust in you.”

Merlin shivers at his words. It had only been a thought, but sometimes even thoughts were enough. It seems Kilgharrah collected more than just favors, if his influence was even able to sway the heart of one bent on mindless revenge.

“Who was it that wished Kilgharrah dead?” Merlin asks softly watching Will.

Although it is too dark to see, he can feel Will’s gaze on him. “Agravaine de la Bois, brother to Ygraine de la Pendragon.”

~*~

Merlin never forgets Will’s words, though the man never speaks again of his life or how he came to serve under the wing of Kilgharrah nó Emrys. But as ever, life goes on. With the enigma of the queen’s death, her brother, and Kilgharrah to puzzle over at night and in spare hours and with studies during the day, neither Merlin nor Freya have much time to themselves.

It is just after winter has yielded its grip on the land to spring that news of a major victory against the Pict makes its way into Camelot and the Emrys household. It is a few weeks before Freya’s seventeenth birthday and it fills the kingdom with a need to celebrate.

With the combined forces from Camelot and Escetia, led by the Duc d’Alene and Dillon de la Escetia, the brash prince, they drove the invading clans back into their mountain holes. It seems Prince Dillon has made a name of himself out on the cold northern border and has acquired quite a following. They call themselves Dillon’s Men and ride alongside him into battle.

Uther orders the men to keep defending the border, calling only a few back to parade the victorious warriors though the city. All except two are surprised by the king’s order to include the Escetian prince, but Kilgharrah and Nimueh always seem to have a knack for knowing things before everyone else.

With the upcoming procession through the city, it seems almost fate that it happens on the day of Freya’s birthday and her coming of age. With her first homage to the old religion, she would come into her magic. Alice, wanting it to be special, opens up her home to them, planning an event for her.

~*~

Merlin stands before the mirror, staring at his reflection. Ever since Gwen had given him his midwinter gift before he had left, he had taken to wearing her neckerchief and others around his neck. It seems Kilgharrah has decided to incorporate it into his outfit.

Fitted breeches cling to his legs, a dark blue that is almost black. The breeches tuck into knee high boots, a dark brown that have been polished within an inch of their life, buckles crossing up and down their length, the metal clasps shining silvery in the light of his lamp.

A white shirt hangs loosely around his frame covered with a doublet that is a lighter shade of blue. Around its collar and sleeves, gold embroidery is sewn into the cloth. A belt encircles his waist, cinched tight around his thin figure and around his long, pale neck, a bronze colored neckerchief rests, the only bit of Kilgharrah’s colors. It proclaims to whose house he is bound.

His door opens and Merlin looks up in his mirror, watching Freya walk in. She is resplendent in velvet and silk. Her dress hangs low off of her shoulders, accenting the smooth slope of her neck and shoulders and the soft curve of her breast. It is the rich brown of seasoned wood, the color bringing out the hue of her skin and accenting her eyes.

She only has a thin line of kohl around her eyes and a pale pink accents her lips, drawing the eye to the subtle beauty of her face. She will never be one of the great beauties that are sung of in tales, but hers is the kind of beauty that will fade gracefully. A thin golden chain dangles from her neck, a small brown pearl resting in the hollow of her collarbones.

“You look beautiful,” Merlin whispers, turning away from the mirror to look at the young woman he considers as a sister. She smiles, a flush riding on her checks, a soft pink.

“So do you,” she says back, looking him over with an assessing eye, like a general inspecting his troops.

“It’s the clothing, not me,” Merlin says, grinning at her. “They could make anyone look good.”

“No, it is you Merlin, now stop being overly modest and escort me to the carriage like a proper gentleman would,” she tells him, elbowing him gently in the ribs.

Holding out his arm, he leads her down the stairs to where Kilgharrah is waiting expectantly for them. He is dressed similarly to Merlin, sans the neckerchief. But where Merlin is dressed in blue, Kilgharrah is dressed in bronze and black. His doublet, when it moves, seems to shimmer in the light and gives the illusion of scales as the light shifts over the subtle pattern woven into the fine cloth.

Donning their cloaks, Kilgharrah’s black, Merlin’s a dark brown, and Freya’s a light shade of grey, they climb into the carriage. Light still streaks the sky as the sun starts to set, the air starting to cool off the closer the sun gets to the horizon.

The procession will start at the northern most point of the city and work its way down until it reaches the courtyard of the castle. Alice had informed them that it would pass right by her home and that they would be able to view it from her balcony.

Alice is already waiting at the door, ever the proper hostess, as their carriage comes to a stop. Climbing out, they stand before her, under her inspection. They have been under her tutelage for nearly three years now and she has come to feel like family.

Finally she nods, liking what she sees. Adjusting the trailing sleeve on Freya’s dress, Kilgharrah’s belt knife, and fussing with Merlin’s wild hair, she finally lets them by, giving them a kind smile. For a second, Merlin is nervous. For so many years, he has always been the one left behind, or forced to remain hidden. Now he will be in the public, he won’t be Kilgharrah’s secret anymore.

He starts when a warm hand wraps around his own, and looks to see Freya giving him a small knowing smile. Smiling back, he takes her hand and wraps it around his arm, escorting her to her party and the start of a new path in life.

Some of the guests are people Merlin has seen at Kilgharrah’s own entertainments; some like Uriens de Escetia are friends, a few acquaintances and even a few adversaries, of the more scholarly battlefield. Some though, are people Merlin has not seen before and has no names to put with faces.

Kilgharrah leaves them a few minutes later, drawn away by someone wishing to speak with him. Merlin offers to grab a goblet for Freya and she smiles and nods. As he slips through the gathered people, he can hear people murmuring “…a sorceress”, “…has come of age.” Already Freya is making a splendid first impression.

Feeling like this party has Kilgharrah’s claws all over it; Merlin quickly grabs a goblet of watered wine from a passing servant. Handing off the drink to Freya, who is deep in conversation with another woman, he slips away again. Standing on the fringe, Merlin watches and listens to those around him.

“The old dragon certainly has interesting bait to dangle in front of people,” a deep voice says near Merlin’s position. Turning, Merlin glances at the man who spoke out of the corner of his eye. Tale, with sun kissed skin, Breunor d’Cote is an intimidating man for those easily taken in by aura of awareness around him. His eyes, a dark grey-green, flick around the room, seeing everything, the eyes of a warrior looking for danger. Silvering, dark brown hair is cut short and a raised scar runs from his temple into his hair line.

“You are interested in the girl?” his companion asks.

D’Cote shakes his head, “She is comely, but I prefer something…stronger.” Making a note of this, Merlin slips away before either man can notice him standing so close and eavesdropping. Merlin is searching for a servant to get a refill on his drink when someone shouts, saying the parade is coming.

Following the crowd, Merlin looks for Kilgharrah or Freya, but can’t see either. Wiggling through people, he tries to get a view of the street outside. Someone seeing his plight, steps to the side a bit and he can finally get through to the balcony edge to look over the street.

The procession has just started at the top of the street, people gathering down below to watch. At its head rides Uther de la Pendragon himself, resplendent in chainmail and armor, his crimson cloak and doublet bright against the grey steel. His hair is steel colored, his face void of emotion. Next to him rides his heir. This is the first time Merlin has seen Morgana de la Pendragon and the stories about her are true. She is beauty personified. Her raven locks fall in rippling rivulets down her back. Pale, porcelain skin is accented by red painted lips, finely arched brows, a noble nose and shining blue eyes. She wears a flowing red dress, gems winking amongst its folds. A crimson cloak of velvet flows behind her and off of her horses hindquarters. Around them ride their guards, two knights ride beside their charges, easily identifiable in their black tunics.

Above the two, the Pendragon flag flies, a golden dragon rampant on a crimson field.

Behind the Pendragons comes a second procession, Valiant d’Alene, Duc d’Alene and his men ride proudly, swords raised to cheers and yells. Mixed in are the men of Escetia and riding next to Valiant is Dillon de la Escetia, prince of Escetia. Rising above them, two flags fly side by side: three green twining snakes on a yellow field and a single black waving snake on a field of pale grey-green.

It takes Merlin moment to realize there is one other person riding with the two men. Nimueh flies no flag, but her placement next to the young prince of Escetia is enough of a proclamation for those there, watching. It is only the second time Merlin has seen Nimueh, but he can feel the tug of her magic even from here.

“The young Duc has certainly proved himself now,” someone says behind Merlin, but he can’t look without giving himself away, so he listens.

“Would you rather he have failed?” someone else asks.

“No, but it seems our Duc has befriended a prince. Now there’s someone who has certainly made a name for himself and it seems the young prince has fallen for Nimueh, poor sod. It’ll kill him surely.” The two stop talking, but Merlin still stares at the three as the procession continues up the street.

The crowd is dispersing, but Merlin doesn’t leave the balcony, watching the last light fade from the sky. “You are Kilgharrah’s student, are you not?” someone asks behind him.

Turning, Merlin looks at the older man standing before him. He has gray hair, his deep brown eyes shadowed by bushy brows. Laugh lines fan his face and a twinkle is in his eyes. “Yes,” Merlin says, nodding.

“I am Plaine de Bawes, a wandering historian and old acquaintance of Kilgharrah’s.” Plaine holds out a hand to Merlin which Merlin takes.

“Merlin,” he says back.

“Come inside with me and tell me how my old friend is fairing these days. Is he still called the dragon?” Putting a hand under Merlin’s elbow, he leads Merlin from the balcony back inside.

“Oh, yes, though never to his face,” Merlin says, grinning. “How did you meet with Kilgharrah?”

“I met with him many years ago, when I was younger. You see, I –,” Plaine starts to say.

“Ah, my dear friend, I didn’t know Alice had invited you,” Kilgharrah booms behind them, making Merlin jump.

“Kilgharrah, good to see you as always; I was just talking with your student here,” Plaine says to him.

“Actually, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been meaning to ask you something…,” Kilgharrah says, steering the man away from Merlin. Merlin sighs in annoyance at the obvious attempt by Kilgharrah to keep him in the dark about his past.

Merlin is milling about the edge again, listening when Kilgharrah finds him again. “There is someone I would like you to meet.” Merlin follows him through the crowd until they reach a less populated area.

“Gaius,” Kilgharrah calls out and an older man turns at his name. Gaius Beau, Alice’s husband and royal physician, is much older than Merlin was expecting. His hair is receding and falls in white waves around his face. One eyebrow seems permanently arched. Lines surround his eyes and lips. Solemn blue eyes stare out at the world with all the things he has seen.

“Ah, Kilgharrah,” Gaius says, smiling a little at the man.

“This is my other student, Merlin.” Gaius runs his eyes over Merlin, staring longest at his eyes.

“A warlock,” Gaius says, surprise coloring his voice as his brow seems to reach for his hairline.

“Indeed, Merlin this is Gaius, Royal Physician to the Pendragon family,” Kilgharrah says.

“Hello,” Merlin replies, bowing slightly to the man.

“Please, my boy, no bowing needed, I am no noble, though I do have land.” Someone calls out his name. “I’m sorry but needs must.” Nodding in their direction, Gaius slips away.

“Was there a reason for that?” Merlin asks as he and Kilgharrah stand still for a moment, just listening.

“Hmm, one cannot know when an acquaintance of his skills might become necessary or useful, besides, I thought you might like to speak with him. He knows a great many things about warlocks. A bit of a hobby of his when he was younger.” With that, Kilgharrah slips away as well and Merlin is left once again on his own.

Deciding it is time to mingle, he slips into the crowds. There are a many interesting people here as companions. Two are from the Court. One is a hired companion from the Wind Branch in Acestir with a bubbling laugh and a slight of hand that even has Merlin hard pressed to see it. The other is an ex-member, like Alice. Melissa nó Wæter was originally from the Water Branch in Tintagel. Her magic seems to flow over him just like the water she takes her name from.

Most of the people though, have their eyes on Freya. Merlin makes notes of which these people are, though only one sticks out the most. Reynold Gunter is a merchant of many trades and Merlin has noted him a few times at Kilgharrah’s entertainments. He is wealthy, mostly due to an exclusive contract with the Bois royal family of Tintagel. His eyes as they follow Freya seem to burn with a sick desire that has the hair on the back of Merlin’s neck standing on end.

With night truly on them, Alice calls the guests to dinner. Merlin can only stare in amazement as course after course is served. Having lived with Kilgharrah for almost seven years now, he has seen many kinds of food, but the sheer amount that is being served; he doesn’t know how he will be able to eat it all. Eyeing the platter that a servant holds up to him, he takes only a small amount. If he is going to survive this feast without exploding, he needs to tread lightly.

By the end, he’s literally stuffed. He stars down at his goblet of water, glad he shifted to water instead of staying with the wine. He’s already seen the other guests drowning the liquid down. Shaking his head, he looks up as Alice calls everyone’s attention. Gaius is seated beside her, smiling indulgently.

“Here’s to the safety of our borders.” There are cheers and roars of approval. Alice waits until they quiet before continuing, “Also, here is to Freya nó Emrys on her seventeenth day of birth. May this be a happy year to you my dear.”

Freya smiles and down the table, Juliana de Listinoise, the Royal Poet, stands. She is a handsome woman; her dark hair pulled back into a braid and her eyes a clear blue. A proud nose adorns her face and a wide mouth settles under it. She opens her mouth and pure magic seems to tumble out of it, each note sweet and clear. Her song tells of life and death and the balance and how all are interlocked.

As the last notes die and Juliana sits back down, the rest stir as if from slumber. Slowly, someone starts to clap and then another until the whole group is applauding the poet. Alice stands once more. “And now, my friends, onwards to the games!”

The night seems to drag on as everyone gathers around. It is a simple game. A series of five circles are drawn in chalk and in their centers are bowls. Someone stands at one end near the largest circle and takes a cherry from the bowl. Eating the cherry, they take the pit and spit it out trying to get the farthest and smallest circle. The winner is whoever gets it in the last bowl in the line.

They all try. Freya goes first and gets the pit into the bowl in the second circle. Merlin makes the third circle but misses the bowl. D’Cote makes it into the fourth bowl to cheers from all around. Somehow, Kilgharrah ends up last. With a great huff, he sends his pit soaring and it lands with a ping in the bowl of the fifth and smallest circle.

There are groans from all around but everyone smiles good-naturedly. “Winner!” Alice cries. “What is your prize, my dear?” she asks.

“Why, my dear Alice, a kiss from one so lovely,” he bows over her hand and she smacks his arm good-naturedly, “as well as a boon.” He asks something of her lowly and she smiles and nods.

Kilgharrah nods in thanks and turns to the rest. “Ladies and Gentlemen, as you know my ward and student Freya nó Emrys has turned seventeen and has come of age. As is the custom of one taking her Rites, an auction shall be held for her virgin-price. With Alice’s permission, we shall hold it here. If this is agreeable, the bidding shall start when the great bell chimes the midnight hour.”

As if on cue, and it is because Kilgharrah does not plan anything lightly, the bell chimes, the sound reverberating through the air. Alice steps forward, “The bidding is now open.”

Breunor d’Cote raises his goblet. “One hundred and fifty gold pieces,” he says aloud. Merlin stares at the man, remembering his words from earlier. He can see a gleam of mischief in his eyes and realizes it has nothing to do with Freya and all about watching the people fall over themselves to outbid him.

A woman raises her own hand, snorting at d’Cote’s words, “Two hundred gold pieces.”

Reynold Gunter glares at the woman and raises his hand, “Two hundred fifty.” He sends a leering smile at Freya.

“Oh, Alice, you sly ol’ girl, three hundred,” Melissa nó Wæter says, smiling at Freya.

“Three Fifty!” Reynold shouts. Someone else bided higher but Merlin couldn’t see who from his vantage point. By then though, it has gotten heated and most stop bidding as the price rises.

D’Cote cedes with a shrug, not interested in actually winning. The last two standing are Reynold and Melissa and the price has reached over a thousand gold pieces. Merlin shares a bemused look with Freya. They both know this has been Kilgharrah’s plan all along and just go with it.

In the end though, Melissa backs out, going over her figures and seeing she can’t win against twelve thousand five hundred gold pieces, more than Merlin has ever heard of a virgin-price reaching in all his time amongst the Court. Reynold sends a gloating grin around the room as Alice ushers in an advocate who has drawn up a contract.

Kilgharrah goes aside with the man and Reynold and the contract is finished. Reynold signs it with a harried flourish, while Freya and Kilgharrah sign it slowly with care. “Come,” Reynold growls out; he looks to Kilgharrah, “My carriage will return her in the morning.” Kilgharrah just nods.

Freya looks to Kilgharrah and he gives a slight nod. Curtsying to Reynold, the two make their way out of the room. Merlin dances, though his mind isn’t completely there as he worries a little over Freya, but he dances and the wine from earlier makes him a little tipsy. He meets Juliana de Listinoise and she sees his eyes and knows him for what he is as well.

~*~

Merlin waits at least until after Freya has been home for most of the day before cornering her in her room to ask about what happened. “Did he hurt you?” he asks, worried about that the most.

“No, he was gentle and he was satisfied with me. He told me he wishes to contract me again once he returns from Tintagel.” She smiles and Merlin can see it in her eyes that she is fine and the slight tension he has been feeling since last night lifts.

“Did he give you anything towards your Mearcung?” The money from the contracts went to whoever owned their bond, in this case Kilgharrah. Only gifts from patrons went towards their Mearcung and their freedom.

She shook her head, “Not after what he paid to be my first. He said he might bring me something back from Tintagel though.”

“I’m sure Kilgharrah knew who would bid highest, so why him? What could he possibly have that Kilgharrah could want?” Merlin asks as she sits down in front of him. His fingers are deft as he works them through her long locks, quickly braiding them into a single thick plait down her back.

“Poison,” she says softly and Merlin’s fingers still in her hair as he thinks it over. “They are one of the biggest exporters of poison, though it’s mostly in back alleys and behind the scenes. The late queen’s brothers rule there and not three months after her death, Reynold was awarded his contract with the Bois royal family.”

“I thought the queen died in child birth,” Merlin said, renewing his braiding and tying the end off with a leather thong.

“That’s the story, but it was after Arthur was born stillborn that she died. No one knew why, but it was assumed that the birth and loss of her son was too much. Kilgharrah and Gaius believed differently, but they didn’t have any proof to back it up. Except that there were rumors of how Tristan and Agravaine, her brothers, poisoned their father to claim the throne. No one knows for sure and there was no proof,” Freya tells him, turning around to look at him.

“Did he tell you anything then?” Merlin asks, settling back against her headboard.

“He said that anything can be bought if the right price is met, even life and death. He may have said more, but…” she trails off, a flush staining her cheeks.

“It’s hard to concentrate,” Merlin finishes for her with a grin. Merlin sobered, “But he didn’t hurt you?”

“Merlin,” she sighs, “There are worse things I could do in milord Emrys’s name that I would do gladly out of love.”

Merlin stares at her. Love of Kilgharrah? He’s not sure he loves the man, respects him and is grateful to Kilgharrah for taking him in, but love? Maybe one day. “Why?” he asks instead of going with his train of thought further.

“You don’t know?” Freya asks, looking at him in confusion. Merlin shakes his head no. “I was born a Druid. I was the only child with my mother, my father and my great grandmother on my mother’s side. When I was five, our camp was attacked by a sorcerer. He cast a curse and it hit me. My grandmother, who was skilled in many arts, was able to freeze the curse, but not rid me of it. As is custom, one who is cursed is cast out to protect the camp. Kilgharrah was the one who found me wandering in the forest. He took me in and with help, found a cure for the curse. He saved my life and took me in and I owe him everything.”

“And your family?” Merlin asks, holding her hand.

“I haven’t seen them since. And I don’t want to,” she says with emphases.

“Do you know why Kilgharrah was in the forest at that time?” Merlin asks.

“I never asked and he hasn’t said, but whatever it was, I’m glad he was there.” She stands, pulling him to his feet. “Come on, dinner should be ready soon.”

~*~

“What do you know about the queen’s brothers?” Merlin asks Gwaine a few days later. They’re in the tavern at their usual table.

“Brothers? Tristan and Agravaine? I know the rumors. Many say that the two poisoned their father to get to the throne. Agravaine married Maria Tintagel, daughter of one of the oldest noble families in Tintagel. They have two daughters Ariel and Elizabeth who both married into the Kenshire family, two cousins. Tristan hasn’t married, though they say there might be a few bastard children of his floating around. There’s also the rumor that Tristan and Uther hate each other and that he never forgave Ygraine for marrying Uther,” Gwaine lists off, never taking his eyes off the crowd.

“Do you think he hated Uther enough to kill his own sister?” Merlin asks quietly.

“Maybe, it’s hard to say with nobles; what with all that honor and chivalry crap they’re so fond of spewing to cover up the fact that they’re human just like us,” Gwaine answers him.

“You say that and yet you’re a noble,” Merlin reminded his friend. He’d only found out about Gwaine’s father a few years before. About how he’d fought in Escetia’s army and when he died, Gwaine’s mother had gone to Cenred’s father, who had been king at the time, asking for help. The man had refused and left the two to starve on the street, soon after they had come to Camelot to start over.

“Yes, but it’s not a title that makes a man, but their actions and words.” Not wanting to antagonize his friend any more, Merlin switches to other topics. They talk until he sees Will standing by the door. Giving his friend a hug, he runs off, pulling his hood up as he goes.

~*~

Two things happen at the same time a few weeks later. The first is the Frumgar of Hibernia making a visit to Camelot. This is a big occurrence for the people of Albion for few have ever been able to cross the stretch of water between Albion and Hibernia which is ruled over by the Fisher King.

For as long as anyone can remember, the Fisher King has ruled over these straits from his island. Few actually believe in his power to command the seas, but the Picts have been unable to raid the upper coast line with their long boats because of the Fisher King and Albion has yet to make a trade route to Hibernia. Which has led to many wondering what the Hibernian delegation paid in order to cross the Fisher King’s waters?

Of course, few actually speak Hibernian and so Kilgharrah is called in as translator. Just before this, Gaius calls on the Emrys household. Kilgharrah had asked if the old physician could teach Merlin of warlocks and all that comes with being one. Merlin thought that Kilgharrah might cancel, but Gaius assures him that it would not be necessary. So Kilgharrah and Freya leave for the castle, Freya to ‘play’ at being a scribe only while in reality she speaks, writes, and reads Hibernian just as well as Kilgharrah and Merlin.

Merlin for his part is too caught up in learning about himself to really pay the visit any attention. The day arrives and Gaius’s carriage pulls up just as Kilgharrah and Freya’s does. They bid each other good day, Merlin asking Freya to fill him in when they get back. Settled into Gaius’s carriage, they ride in silence, the city disappearing and the surrounding forest closing up around them.

They ride for about an hour, the trees getting taller and thicker, the road becoming rougher. Eventually, they slow and stop, the driver coming around to open the door and help Gaius down from his seat. Jumping out after him, Merlin stares around in wonder.

This section of the forest is something he’s never seen, untamed and wild. Few people have come here. It takes Merlin a moment to sense the tickling sensation at the back of his head. Opening up his mind, he’s flooded by wild magic, natural earth magic, all around him.

He staggers, a harsh breath ripping through his lungs as he tries to separate from the magic. “Easy, my boy,” Gaius says, holding his arm to steady him. “I should have warned you beforehand. Just focus on me, on my voice…”

Merlin does and slowly, the bit that is him starts to emerge from the magic. Taking a gasping breath, he feels the rest of the magic leave and he just feels rung out and about to collapse. Gaius wisely leads him to a stump nearby and lowers him to the ground.

“What was that?” Merlin asks later once he’s feeling better.

“This place is a sacred place, where wild magic pools. It is a place where warlocks are buried.” Standing shakily, Merlin follows Gaius further into the trees. It takes him a moment to notices the headstones, buried and hidden by the forest as it slowly takes over.

There are so few, only a couple dozen, scattered around them. “This is the last recorded warlock in our history,” Gaius says standing before a headstone that looks a little clearer than the rest: Ambrosia Antonius.

“How long ago?” Merlin asks.

“Two hundred years ago,” Gaius says and Merlin shivers in the cool breeze. The first warlock in two hundred years, that’s a long time for someone to compete against.

“As far as I can tell, this is the first one ever buried here, just before the creation of the five kingdoms.” He points to a headstone some distance away. It is crumbling stone, vines and lichen growing over it and rain and weather eroding it leave only one part of the stone visible and legible: Emrius.

Gaius leads him away to a small hillock. A slab of granite juts out from its base, the top of it flat. The wind and rain have shaped it into an almost bench like projection. They sit down, staring out into the forest.

“What are warlocks for?” Merlin finally asks.

“That is a broad question, my boy,” Gaius says, but continues before Merlin can say more. “Mostly, they prophesied change, not for good or bad, but for change in the balance. A warlock is a link between the balance and everything else. The balance works through the warlock to see that what it wants happens.”

“That…that’s a lot for one person,” Merlin finally whispers; panic welling up slightly in his gut.

“My boy, do you think every warlock went looking for the change? You have no control over fate, but it doesn’t mean you can’t live life to its fullest until that day comes. And not all change is big,” Gaius says wisely, patting his shoulder to comfort him.

“What happened, during Ambrosia Antonius’s time?” Merlin asks.

“The last of the dragons died and the last Dragonlord disappeared into the northern mountains to live the life of a hermit,” Gaius admits.

“What if I screw up, don’t do what the balance wants me to? What then?” Merlin asks.

“Now you’re just being stupid. Use your head, boy. The balance works through many things. If it wants something to happen, it will.” Gaius’ eyebrow is kind of scary and Merlin smiles sheepishly at his words.

“So, what now?” he asks.

“Now, I teach you all I can and hope it will be enough,” Gaius says. They spend the next two hours going over every piece of knowledge Gaius has collected through his years. From myths and feats they supposedly did, to their connection to wild magic and the balance. By the end, Merlin’s mind is buzzing with all that Gaius has told him.

They’re quiet on the walk back to the carriage where the driver is dozing as he waits for their return. “Thank you,” Merlin says, turning to Gaius.

“I was my pleasure, my boy,” Gaius says as they climb back into the carriage. They’ve started the ride back when Gaius speaks up again. “And remember, that place isn’t just a burial ground. It can be a place of healing and meditation when you need it.”

“I will,” Merlin says. He thanks Gaius again as he gets out of the carriage back at the household. Waving once as the carriage pulls away, he goes inside. Kilgharrah and Freya are still at the castle so Merlin goes into the library and spends his time until their return immersed in a book of history from two hundred years ago.

~*~

They return with friends in tow, plans for a small party already being made, despite Merlin’s desire to tell Freya all he’s learned while away. Talk that night is about nothing but the Frumgar’s visit to Albion. 

That night, Kilgharrah beckons Merlin out into the courtyard, his usual smirk in place. “I believe you are old enough now to merit a seat amongst your peers. You know the Comte de Isidore,” he says, motioning to Uriens. “As well as Juliana, our dear poetess. This is Petit Fils, the Royal Admiral of Camelot’s finest ships. And finally, we have Pellinore de Dieu, the Comte de Dieu, and our Royal Commander of Camelot’s army.”

Merlin knows the first two to a certain degree, but the Admiral and Commander are new to him. The Admiral is a robust man, his face weathered; dark green eyes stare out from under bushy brows and a dark beard adorning his chin. His shoulders are broad and he is barrel-chested with a thin waist and muscled thighs.

The Commander on the other hand is almost polar opposite. His skin is clean shaven, though he is tanned. His sun bleached hair is pulled back into a tight braid and his grey eyes are ever watchful under fine brows. He is tall, his build wiry and he is thin in comparison to the Admiral. Merlin stammers something in greeting, too awed by their stories and legends to be comfortable around them.

“So you’re Kilgharrah’s little secret. A warlock, ya old dragon? Only you would be bold enough to take in one of them,” Petit barks out with a guffaw and a knee slap. He beckons Merlin over to his couch and looks him over. “Not much too you lad, but you’ve some years to go,” he jokes, slapping Merlin on the shoulder soundly and sending him staggering some. As Merlin straightens himself, Petit speaks again, ‘So, you’re this old leather hide’s pupil, why do you think the Fisher King allowed the Frumgar through?”

Merlin takes a moment to answer, “If I knew that my lord, I would not need to be here.” Merlin grins cheekily at the Admiral and Petit roars with laughter, thumping his knee again. Freya’s tinkling laugh joins in and the others as well.

“If anyone would know why, it would be you Admiral…or perhaps you might know my dear muse?” Kilgharrah says, turning to look at Juliana. That was a tale from Merlin’s childhood, of how Juliana de Listinoise had been banished from Albion and in her grief, had decided to cross the Fisher King’s strait to get to Hibernia. She had stayed in exile for two years before a messenger bird had drawn her back to Albion to news of the Queen’s death along with the prince.

Juliana shook her head. “I do not know what the Fisher King might have asked of the Frumgar to allow passage. I was asked for a song there and a song back to get passage. He seems to go on desire alone.”

Freya shifts loudly and the group turns to look at her. “They spoke of a vision,” she admits. “I was close enough to hear. Apparently, the Frumgar’s sister is a Seer and she had a vision of a golden dragon and a red hart.”

“But did you see Morgause seemed to take to the man’s wife. I almost felt compelled to warn her to beware the fangs on that woman. Tis not a good thing to become involved with that viper,” Uriens says ignoring the fact they he was related to Morgause by marriage.

“Morgause le Fey de la Escetia would be wise to beware of Vela. She is under the protection of the Blæc Beran, the Black Bear. Morgause should beware of claws herself,” Juliana says softly.

“Her boys are big though. Did you see the eldest; he was not pleased to be skipped over in favor of a cripple,” Petit says drinking deeply from his goblet.

“You refer to the Prince?” Pellinore asks with a good-natured brow lift at the Admiral. “Tiny little thing compared to that boy, but fair beneath all that blue. Shame about his leg. What was his name again?”

“Driant and don’t even think about it,” Kilgharrah tells him with a touch of warning in his voice.

“I am not stupid, not when I’m in politics,” Pellinore jokes.

“Are they really tattooed in blue?” Merlin asks in a lull of the conversation, sipping at his wine.

“As truly as you will soon wear your Mearcung, warlock,” Juliana tells him. “They wear the marks as a story, telling of their deeds and accomplishments, who their family is and where their alliances stand. People may pity the prince, but do not mistake him for weak. His markings attest to his victories in battle. He has won his place, despite his foot.”

“And yet we still do not know what they want,” Uriens says aloud. “Is it trade, following some cryptic vision, protection from the Picts who have tried to raid from the north?”

“I have heard that Acestir has also tried for a southern trade route to Hibernia, but that the Frumgar and Wigend made landing impossible, so it seems protection and trade are not on their list,” Petit admits, running a hand through his short locks.

“We say they want our protection and yet we must still defend our borders from the north and the south. The Picts desire our rich lands and the lands to the south of us desire our riches. Tis no wonder we must defend ourselves,” Kilgharrah reminds them.

“And we will be there to defend them,” Petit says, raising his glass in salute to Pellinore who nods back. The rest raise their glasses as well.

“Yet, the Fisher King desires none of these things. So we still do not know what it is he seeks nor do we know what he asked of the Frumgar,” Freya says, her quick mind connecting things that were not seen by others. Even Kilgharrah seems to be surprised by her words, but he composes himself before anyone else can see it, but Merlin sees his eyes and knows that Kilgharrah has filed her words away for later perusal.

“It matters not. Tonight, Uther dines with the Hibernians and Morgana shall teach the cripple prince to dance properly.” Kilgharrah takes up his pipe, lights it and takes a drag. “Juliana, perhaps you would do us the honor of a song?”

Juliana shoots Kilgharrah a knowing glance but obliges, singing in her magical voice. Uriens leaves sober that night with a nod to the three of them while the Admiral drinks deep into his cups and is assisted by two manservants into one of the guest rooms to sleep his drink off.

Merlin didn’t hear the conversation, but he saw Freya leave with Pellinore, Kilgharrah nodding to the Commander and speaking a few words to him. As far as Merlin knows, no contract is signed, but the next day, Freya returns and an appointment is made with the tattooist to start her Mearcung at the base of her spine where it curves smoothly into her buttocks.

~*~

Kilgharrah goes twice more to the castle, alone, during the Frumgar’s visit. Uther and the ambassadors of the other kingdoms exchange gifts and pleasantries and soon the Hibernian party leaves, sailing back across the strait, not stopped by the Fisher King. If Kilgharrah has learned anything since the party, he has not said, keeping tight lipped.

No longer needed in the capital, the Comte de Dieu soon heads back for the north and his troops to guard the mountain passes. Petit leaves as well, sobered after his sleep, and heads for his fleet, heading south to guard Albion’s southern shores. Word of his victory against a raiding party from the mainland arrives sometime later, to many cheers.

The Frumgar’s visit fades into the back ground, and only a few actually think on it, for life goes on and Hibernia is far across the strait.

Merlin stews impatiently, wanting life to go by fast. Freya’s accomplishment of her auction and virgin-price soon spread and daily requests come asking for her service. Kilgharrah screens them thoroughly and only the ones he deems suitable pass by Freya, for her choosing. They have say in that much at least.

Freya’s third patron is Melissa nó Wæter, bestowed by Alice to the ex-Water Court member for her birthday. Freya doesn’t tell him much, but she returns with an easy smile, her gaze farseeing and unfocused, as if she is remembering something.

That day, Kilgharrah calls Merlin into his study. His pipe is lit and rests on a stand on the table, smoke curling from its bowl. Merlin sits and waits for Kilgharrah to get to the reason he was called here. He doesn’t have to wait long. Kilgharrah shifts, as if waking from sleep. He blinks slowly and turns to look at Merlin. “You are aware, that I have received requests…for you.”

“I…no, my lord,” Merlin says. He had heard of no such request despite his birthday having been some weeks before.

Kilgharrah stood, grabbing up his pipe and taking a puff from it. “Indeed, ever since Freya’s debut.” He stops pacing and turns to look fully at Merlin. “Do you wish to accept one of these offers?”

Merlin’s breathe stops for a second and then Kilgharrah’s word sink in. “My lord…I would be willing to accept one of these requests,” Merlin says, trying to keep the impatience from his voice. He has been waiting for so long now.

“I thought you might say something along those lines,” he says with his usual smirk. His face turns serious a second later. “You must first choose a signal.”

“What?” Merlin asks, confused.

“Ah, I’d forgotten that this was not covered in your learning. It is not often practiced. A signal is a word that stops all things. It is used when you feel unsafe. It is a safe guard against harm and should a patron not abide by it, they are punishable under the full force of the law. It is something that will not be mistaken as play. Choose your word wisely, young warlock. This is one of my ways of safeguarding you two, should things not go as planned.”

Merlin nods and stares into space for a moment, a word forming in his mind. It is fitting, that he uses it: “Gwaine,” the name of his childhood friend and his first taste of freedom.

Kilgharrah blinks, taken aback momentarily, and finally he nods, “It will be added to your contract.”

“Who is it that you have in mind?” Merlin asks and for a second, Nimueh’s face appears in his mind and he shivers.

“There are several, passed through discreet channels, except for one. Breunor d’Cote seems to love the direct approach since he came forward himself to place his request.” He draws from his pipe again and absentmindedly blows a smoke ring.

Merlin tries to remember D’Cote’s face, but all he can come up with is a hard-faced man with a scar and short hair. “Why would he do that? He knows the game you play, so why go for the bait anyways?” Merlin asks.

“He believes he can best me in my own game. He is a hunter and thinks he can avoid the hook and flush out his true prey through you. He is too arrogant to let this pass,” Kilgharrah says with another smirk.

“What do you wish me to get from him?” Merlin asks, feeling acceptance seep into his very bones. He has waited patiently for this day and it has finally come. He will do what he must and more, so long as he is allowed for once.

“Whatever he may give away. He has influence in many places in court and is high ranked himself. He knows what happens in court before most. He will know who is posted where and who profits from what,” Kilgharrah tells him.

“Like who profited from Ygraine de la Pendragon’s death?” Merlin asks cautiously, hoping Kilgharrah might slip for once.

“No one benefited from Ygraine’s death except Reynold Gunter and he is within our reach through Freya. But D’Cote stands alone, but who pulls his strings. Find this for me, and I will owe you greatly, young warlock.”

Merlin sits there for a second, mulling his words. Finally, he nods. “I will do my best.”

“Then you agree to his request?”

“How much is it?” Merlin says instead of answering.

Kilgharrah throws his head back and roars his laughter to the ceiling. “Oh, ever one of the Moonlight Court.” Catching his breath he answers, “Nine Hundred and Seventy-Five.” Merlin must have shown something on his face for Kilgharrah continues. “Freya’s price only went that high because of the people invited and the auction. The ones who will ask for you are a select group who like to have those with power and those who are rare. It will rise as your prestige rises with you. Do not fret,” he says with a chortle.

“Alright, I will accept his request,” Merlin answers.

Kilgharrah sits, face serious once more. “I want you to be careful. Do not push too hard and ask nothing. Let him think he has won, but do not do anything that will put you in danger. Patience is not a weakness, risk nothing until the time is right. Do you understand?”

Merlin nods. “And should it go wrong?”

“Then half of what he paid for you will go to your Mearcung and you will never have to see him again. Just promise me, that should it become too much, you will use your signal.”

“I will…Gwaine,” Merlin says softly, letting his friend’s name fall off of his tongue.

“And do not let on to your learning. For all he knows, you are just an empty-headed pawn in my game with skills from the Moonlight Court,” Kilgharrah cautions.

“Then why did you take Freya with you to the castle?” Merlin asks.

“I said she wrote a fair hand as a scribe and with exception of Uther, none were disillusioned. Remember Merlin, image is everything sometimes and Freya had the airheaded female down pat years before,” Kilgharrah says with a snort.

Merlin nods. “I will be wary,” he says, already impatient for the day to come.

Kilgharrah nods back. “I will see to the arrangements.” He dismisses Merlin from his study.

~*~

Merlin brushes Freya’s hands away and turns to look at himself in the mirror. Someone else look out of the reflective surface. A young man stands there, dressed in tightfitting black hose tucked into shiny black boots. Buckles washed in gold wink in the candle light. A black tunic settles over a deep blue, long sleeved shirt, the ends gathered at his wrists. Gold embroidery and small golden beads are sewn into the cloth, hidden by folds of cloth until the light touches them.

His hair has been artfully arranged, wild looking against his clean, pale skin. Blue, gold flecked eyes stare back at him, kohl outlining them, making them seem deeper and brighter. Freya stands behind him and she stares at him in the mirror as well.

“You are ethereal,” she says with a small smile.

Merlin turns away from the mirror to look at her, his sister and friend, “You think so?” She nods. Merlin smiles cheekily. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck, come home safe,” she says softly, hugging him close. He holds her as well, taking in her comfort, his nerves settling down. They both leave the room, descending the stairs where Kilgharrah is waiting with Will.

Kilgharrah looks him over and nods, handing him a pile of cloth. As Merlin takes it, the silky cloth unfolds, rippling like water until the beautiful cloak hangs from his hands. It is black and yet when the light strikes it, the brilliant blue of magic springs forth as if summoned by a spell. Merlin swallows through the lump in his throat, petting the beautiful garment reverently. “As I suspected, it suits you,” Kilgharrah says.

“Thank you,” Merlin says hoarsely and clears his throat.

“I spoke with Gaius about it and he told me that it is tradition to bestow this upon a warlock before their Rites. Only a warlock is allowed to bear this color. I had to send to the elders in the dyers Guild far to the north to find someone who knew how to recreate this color.”

Kilgharrah steps forward, placing a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, “A safe journey and a safe return, young warlock.” Kilgharrah lets go and steps back. “The carriage is waiting. Will will ride with you as escort. Be safe.”

Inside the carriage, it is dark and quiet, the only sounds his and Will’s breathing and the sound of the horse’s hooves striking the cobblestones. Merlin hugs the beautiful cloak around himself, taking courage from its soft folds.

D’Cote’s home is some distance from Kilgharrah’s, but closer to the castle. He apparently also has room in the castle itself, but prefers to use this residence for assignations like this. A servant opens the door on them, surprised by his companion. Taking it in stride, the man sniffs loudly and lets them in. “You will reside in the servant’s quarters until he sends for you,” the servant says to Will. He takes Merlin’s cloak, settling the heavy cloth over his arm.

“This way my lord,” he says and shows Merlin through the halls to where D’Cote waits for him. D’Cote is in a room off to the right of the long hall. The door is made of thick, heavy oak, bands of iron running across, adding support to the wood.

“My lord, Merlin nó Emrys to see you.” Inside is a dim chamber, a low fire flickering in the great hearth along the opposite wall. Merlin can make out animal heads, trophies of the great hunter, weapons and D’Cote’s coat-of-arms decorating the walls as well.

D’Cote is stood to the right of the door and as the large door is shut behind Merlin, he feels his nerves start up again, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as the tension mounts up. Breunor d’Cote is still the imposing figure he recalls from Alice’s party, maybe even more so now that it is only the two of them. His hair is still shaved close to the skull; sharp grey-green eyes bore into Merlin, predatory eyes.

Before Merlin can blink, D’Cote strides across the room, his hand not holding his goblet, coming up to strike Merlin across the face, sending him staggering and falling to his knees. Merlin’s ears ring and a bead of blood rises up from his slightly split lips. Merlin licks it away.

“You will kneel in my presence, whore” he says lowly, taking a small sip from his goblet, not a drop spilled.

Merlin shifts, falling properly onto his knees, head bowed before this man, arms relaxed in his lap. “Why does Kilgharrah send you to tempt me?” D’Cote asks, circling Merlin. His hand slides into Merlin’s short locks and yanks back, pulling his throat taut in a pale stretch of skin.

“I don’t know, my lord,” Merlin whispers, swallowing noisily.

“I don’t believe you,” he says, running the edge of the base of his goblet down Merlin’s throat in a mocking caress. “Tell me why he sent you? What is it he thinks you could get from me?” He dug the edge of metal slightly into his throat. “Does he think I will just spill all of my secrets in pillow talk to some whore?” He presses a little harder.

“I don’t know,” Merlin gets out past the pressure, breathing shallowly.

Merlin shifts and can feel D’Cote’s muscled thigh pressing against his head and neck. Merlin gasps as his magic starts to awaken, worming through his veins hot and heavy, like he’s drunken too much mead. He knows D’Cote must see the magic sparking in his eyes.

D’Cote gives a soft breathy sound, staring at the play of power inside Merlin’s body; lifting the goblet up and releasing his hold on Merlin’s hair, he takes a drink. “We shall see, warlock.” Stepping back, he tossed the empty goblet away with a clang of metal. “Prove to me you are not here for your master alone. Please me.”

Merlin turns around, still kneeling and reaches for the ties to D’Cote’s hose. He is already hard, his cock straining against the cloth and the tip wet. As the final knot comes undone, he springs forward, curling towards the man’s stomach. Merlin doesn’t wait, taking the thick red shaft into his mouth, letting the heavy scent and taste wash over him.

Merlin can hear D’Cote groan above him as he takes him in deep, swallowing around his cock and sucking messily, noisily, no finesse or grace, despite all of his teaching. But D’Cote does not care and if Merlin can tell one thing, it is what his patron wants. Instead, he takes him deep, lets him thrust and use his mouth and throat.

Merlin’s jaw aches, his throat is sore and his lips are starting to go numb. Saliva runs down his chin, but he doesn’t stop, lets D’Cote use him until the man stops with a deep groan, pressed as deep as he can be down Merlin’s throat. Merlin feels every twitch and pulse as he comes down his throat, his vision starting to go black from lack of air.

D’Cote pushes him away and Merlin falls to the hard stone floor, gasping for breath. A booted foot kicks him onto his back, “Whore!” D’Cote yells. “On your feet and take you clothes off.”

Merlin rises shakily. His fingers tremble slightly as he starts to undress, undoing his belt and slipping his tunic over his head. His under shirt comes next. Kneeling, he quickly undoes the buckles of his boots, slipping out of them. His hose and smalls are last and as they pool in a heap at his feet, he stands naked before D’Cote. D’Cote stares, eyes hooded as he takes in Merlin.

“There,” he pointed to a pile of furs and blankets in front of the fire. “On your stomach,” he says. As Merlin makes his way towards the pile, D’Cote stalks up behind him; shedding clothing like a dog does water until he looms naked behind Merlin.

Kneeling, Merlin lies down on his stomach, feeling the warmth of the fire on his face and the tickle of fur on his stomach. He holds himself still as D’Cote readies. Merlin doesn’t even have time to start before two blunt fingers are pressed against his entrance and press through. Merlin cries out, tears springing to his eyes his virgin muscles are stretched to accommodate D’Cote’s thick fingers.

Breathing shallowly, he clutches at the cloth beneath his fingers, willing his body to relax. D’Cote knows at least to not move as Merlin become accustomed to the intrusion. Slowly, the vice of his muscles release and he can breathe a little easier.

D’Cote pulls back and Merlin feels him pour more oil onto his fingers. By the time D’Cote adds a third finger, Merlin’s breath is hitching for a different reason, his magic awakening even more now. He can feel it just beneath his skin, like ants are crawling all over him. It itches and tingles and all he can do is press back onto the fingers impaling him.

D’Cote pulls his fingers out, broad hands grabbing at Merlin’s hips and dragging him up onto his hands and knees. Merlin only has a second to breathe before D’Cote presses forward, blunt head nudging at his ring of muscle and presses through.

A whine escapes from Merlin’s throat as D’Cote doesn’t stop and just presses forward slowly and steadily until he is in as far as he can go. They are both breathing harshly, D’Cote’s fingers digging severely into Merlin’s hips. He pulls out slowly and presses in faster the next time and the next until he is thrusting, pounding into Merlin’s willing body.

Below, Merlin cries out, sweat beading on his skin, his breath coming shallowly as he gasp, riding the pleasure. His magic seems to be whirling around him, in him, through him. His arms start to shake and he collapses onto his elbows. As the angle changes, D’Cote seems to hit something inside him that has him seeing stars and a cry is torn from his throat.

D’Cote just growls over him, pounding harder still, taking his pleasure from Merlin’s body. As his thrusts start to stutter, D’Cote’s arms curl around Merlin’s shoulders and he hauls him up onto his lap, Merlin’s own weight forcing D’Cote in deeper than ever. Arching against him, Merlin cries out.

Still thrusting, D’Cote lets out a low roar, hips stuttering, coming inside Merlin. Merlin feels it all and as the man starts to come, his magic goes wild and spikes. Merlin’s sight goes golden and then he’s coming as well, arching and writhing in D’Cote’s grip, obscene noises falling from his lips as he climaxes.

Merlin comes to still draped over D’Cote, trembling still and breathing heavily. “You are something indeed,” he says softly into Merlin’s ear, turning Merlin’s head to the side. It is then that Merlin notices the fire roaring in its hearth, far higher and brighter than it had been, the flames taking on a blue hue.

“Tell me what Kilgharrah wants,” he asks, stroking idle fingers along Merlin’s skin, making it twitch.

“I don’t know,” Merlin bites out.

“Truly?” His hand circles around to Merlin’s back. Merlin arches as he wiggles a finger in alongside his cock still firmly impaled inside him.

“I swear it!”

His other hand comes around and takes his cock in hand and starts to stroke it, drawing a hoarse cry from Merlin as the oversensitive flesh is brought back into hardness. “I paid Kilgharrah for your virgin-price and I plan to take my due.” He does.

~*~


	3. Part 3

**Part 3**   


Merlin blinks at Alice’s words. She ignores his confusion, tugging at his arm and leading him out of the house and into a waiting carriage. He’d only just gotten back that morning, feeling sore and empty, and his magic for once quiet.

She takes him to a small village outside of the city that is known for its hot springs. He flushes bright red when she motions for him to start taking his clothing off, but she just ignores him, slipping out of her dress and wrapping a large towel around her torso and walking through the doors of the changing rooms to the communal spring.

She is already submerged in the heated water when Merlin finally emerges later, towel wrapped low around his waist. Slipping in quickly, he can’t help the groan that escapes when the hot water makes contact with abused muscles.

“There is no need to be shy, Merlin. I have seen more than enough male bodies, yours is nothing new,” Alice says with a chuckle. They are quiet for a while, listening to the forest around them, only a wall of woven reeds keeping their bathing private.

“They say that the waters have a restorative property, especially for us magic users,” she says, gliding through the water until she is next to him. She lifts his chin, examining the bruise forming there from D’Cote’s strike. “We always were better healers then those without magic. It should heal quickly with how much magic you have. I hear D’Cote makes love like he hunts, is it true?”

Merlin chokes on a laugh, remembering the way the man had wielded his cock like a spear to take down game. “It is,” he admits, slipping further under the water until it was up to his chin. The heat felt good against his sore entrance and soothed away some of the ache. “He certainly has stamina.”

“Was there anything that you felt unprepared for?” she asks, concerned.

Merlin shakes his head. “My lord D’Cote was more interested in giving than receiving.”

“Others will. If you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask me.” She gives him a small smile. “Do you think he will ask for you again?”

Remembering his rage fueled questions and actions, Merlin nods. “He will think it is to best Kilgharrah, but will not realize that the hook is already set and that Kilgharrah is just waiting to reel him in,” Merlin says, running fingers through his hair, turning his locks into short spikes.

“Be careful, my dear. If he finds you out, he will lash out and that will make him more dangerous than he was before.” Her face grows grave, her eyes sad. “I do not know what Kilgharrah plans, but I hope his plans do not put you in any more danger.”

“Kilgharrah knows what he does and has prepared us for this,” Merlin says, pushing off from the rocky shelf he is sitting on and swims out a few feet.

“I hope you are right, dear. Come let us get out. They should be serving the noon meal and we should have time for one more soak before we leave.” They clamber out of the hot spring, sliding into simple cotton robes.

Merlin is dropped off before sunset, refreshed and feeling much improved. He gives his report to Kilgharrah and his master praises him for playing D’Cote so. “Tell him nothing and he will eventually let something slip in hopes that you will as well. Here,” he set a small purse on the table, the coins inside clinking together. “A patron gift towards your Mearcung, sent by courier this afternoon while you were away. Most likely, he wants it to be a reminder to me of his conquest of you that will be permanently etched into your skin. Do you wish to accept?”

“He was my first, he should be allowed some room for boasting,” Merlin jokes with a small smirk.

“I will make an appointment then,” Kilgharrah says, dismissing Merlin from his study.

~*~

A week later, Merlin’s first appointment with the tattooist arrives. He goes to the same man as Freya, a master artist of his trade. Master Morholt Saracen is an old man who has been plying his trade for three decades. Kilgharrah had paid dearly for his bond-price and only the best would do.

Merlin spends the first hour, lying on his stomach naked on a table being measured. He holds still as Master Saracen walks around him, tape and calipers in hand, muttering measurements that his apprentice takes down. As Merlin dresses, Master Saracen transfers his measurements to paper.

He sends the boy for Kilgharrah. As they wait, Master Saracen pulls out a scroll, pinning it to the wall. Merlin knows Freya’s Mearcung from seeing the base but had not known what it would turn into. The image he sees is one of pure artistic genius. A leaping feline creature seems to spring from the base, the tail curling where her spin ends. Its wings spread out, surrounding its body as it stares out with shining yellow-green eyes. It is made of thick and thin black lines, hints of color standing out.

Kilgharrah arrives and the two spend the next hour hunched over Merlin’s own scroll, discussing designs and images. Sketch after sketch is made, refined and discarded until at last, both are satisfied with the end result. Master Saracen painstakingly transfers the finished image to the scroll.

Finally, he finishes and Kilgharrah holds it up for Merlin to see. It is a dragon, long and sinuous, with golden eyes. It is wrapped around a sword that is partially obscured by the beast’s wings and limbs. Merlin can make out Drycræft symbols written on the blade of the sword: Take me up. Cast me away. It seems fitting, for what he does. Shots of deep, dark blue and bright gold and red highlight the dragon in places, contrasting against the stark, thick black lines.

“It is beautiful,” Merlin whispers, staring at the drawing, awed.

“I thought so to. I will wait in the wine shop. Send your boy when you are done with him,” Kilgharrah says and leaves.

Merlin disrobes again and lies down. He tries not to twitch too much as the outline is sketched onto his back with a quill. Master Saracen constantly rechecks his measurements until at last, he is satisfied. It seems to take forever before he is done, but Merlin waits patiently. Master Saracen’s apprentice spends this time gathering the master’s tools and supplies, mixing the ink and readying the brazier to warm the shop up.

At last, it is time to start and Merlin waits for the first strike of the needles. There’s a tap and then a point of pain and Merlin gasps as his magic reacts, rising to the surface of his skin. “Damn warlock,” Master Saracen mutters, smacking his arse to get him to stay still. “My grandfather was right, he said they are worse than the criers and bleeders and now I know why.” Flushing, Merlin held completely still as the mallet tapped and tapped and tapped at his skin, creating the base of his Mearcung.

~*~

After his first assignation, the offers for Merlin start to pour in. It is now that Merlin sees Kilgharrah’s plans. Freya’s patrons are from a broader range, meant to draw people in so that he could select those he wanted.

But Merlin’s patrons are a different area. His is a select group that Kilgharrah knows well. His patrons are the power hungry ones, who thrive over having power at their fingertips, who take pleasure in lording over someone who is stronger than them. Merlin is the bait for Kilgharrah’s more elusive prey.

Although, not all his patrons are like D’Cote’s brute display of power. His second patron is George Glasson, Treasury Chancellor. A small man, his demeanor submissive, he seemed to just fade into the background. He just lies on the bed and tells Merlin to please him.

Eager to prove his skill, Merlin falls to the task willingly, using all the tricks he has learned. When nothing seems to stir the man, Merlin grows desperate, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes from frustration. Taking Glasson into his mouth, he sucks and laps, but the most he gets is a half-hearted stirring.

His eyes burn with shame at not being able to do as he is bid. “You’re not very good, are you?” Glasson asks, sitting up. “Fine, I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“My lord, I’m sorry…” Merlin starts to say. Glasson just presses Merlin down onto his back and rummages through a drawer in his side table. He pulls out silken cords, looping them around his wrists and ankles to the bed posts. Merlin notices then that Glasson is erect, the head of his cock already engorged enough to leak precome down the thick sides.

“Do you wish to give the signal?” he asks Merlin, pulling out a small chest to set it on the bed. Merlin can just make out an array of items inside the look like they are made from wood and stone. Merlin shakes his head no, breathing already shallow, his magic stirring under his skin.

As with his first assignation, Merlin has his interview with Kilgharrah, spilling all he can give. Though neither is sure what is important and what is not, they assume Kilgharrah knows what to do with the information that steadily trickles into the kingdom.

During this time, Uther suffers a minor seizure, leaving his right hand shaking constantly. Morgana still remains unwed and suitors constantly circle her and the throne, hungering for the power that comes with her hand in marriage.

The most ambitious of these is Morgana’s own half-sister, Morgause. She is often called the Escetian Viper, and with good cause, for her sword could strike as fast a snake. Merlin learns of her ambition through one of his patrons.

~*~

The Marquise Sharia Gairn contracts him for two days in her country estate. She spends her time putting him to demeaning chores that are impossible to accomplish without magic and she forbids him from using his magic, and then chastises him later for his incompetence. It is an easy script to remember, though he doesn’t have to like it completely.

It is during one of these chores that he hears of Morgause’s plans. Gairn returns before he is finished with his assignment, decked out in riding attire, boots covered in dust and riding crop in hand. “You incompetent fool!” she yells aloud, bringing the crop onto his right shoulder in a stinging smack that forces a cry out of his throat. “You were supposed to be done by my return. This is not done.” She smacks him again, harder, on the other shoulder.

“You ask too much,” Merlin hisses out.

Her eyes grow hard, seeming to turn into blue gemstones as she stares down at him. “I only ask that I be served well,” she hisses out, using the crop to push his chin up, digging it into the flesh there. “I will not stand for incompetence. Take your clothing off.”

This is not Merlin’s first time with her and he knows what he must do. Stripping off his clothing, he turns around, hands resting on his knees, back exposed to Gairn. The blows rain down quickly, the slap of the crop loud in the quiet room. She does not hit him hard enough to leave a mark, but he will be feeling the wells for the rest of the day.

She finally stops and he can breathe again. She beckons him over to where she is leaned against the arm of the couch. With shaking hands, he unbuttons her ridding pants, her small hands carding through his hair as he presses his mouth against the heated folds of her sex.

Of course, her steward comes in at this moment, averting his eyes, saying that Morgause has sent a messenger for the Marquise. “That damn harpy, what does she want now?” she swears, pushing Merlin away and doing up her clothing. “Send him in.” She turns back to Merlin. “I am not done with you. Get dressed and wait here quietly.”

Merlin does and is kneeling by the time the messenger is shown into the room. Merlin doesn’t look up to take in the man’s features, but he listens to him as he hands Morgause’s message over. Sharia Gairn reads the letter aloud, much to Merlin’s relief.

Rumors abound of one of the kings in the lands to the south of Albion having sent a request for Morgana’s hand to ally the two lands through marriage. Morgause proposes that Gairn string this man along with false promises until he agrees to cede rights to the islands just south of Albion and then later have the messages discovered so that no alliance could be formed.

The Marquise is highly ranked in Uther’s court; she could do this, though she would be putting herself on the line to do this treason. She paces, the crop still in her hand swishing through the air close to Merlin. “And what does Morgause offer?” she asks the messenger.

The man answers, “A title in Escetia, with lands along the coast and two hundred men-at-arms with an income of thirty thousand gold pieces annual.”

The crop twitches and smacks against her boot. “I’ll do it, but I want the title in hand and safe passage before I send out the orders. Tell her that I want an escort by Prince Dillon and his little group. Let us see if she is truly earnest.”

“I will tell her, my lady. Title in hand and Prince Dillon as an escort.” Merlin hears him bow and his steps as he leaves the room, the door closing with a snap.

Merlin can feel her eyes on him as she turns from the door. “It seems I have a reason to celebrate. What do you know, you’re here just for me,” she whispers softly, running the edge of the crop along his neck and Merlin shudders.

~*~

Morgause turns the Marquise’s counteroffer down. It seems even she has a stopping point: her step son. Prince Dillon was not her child to bargain with, though she had acted as his mother since her marriage to Cenred after his first wife’s death from child birth.

Of course, the rumors are entirely false. Morgana has no plans to marry a foreigner’s son and so the islands to the south remain out of Albion’s reach. Kilgharrah still prizes the information, for it reveals Morgause’s true ambition and what she might be trying to stir up.

To the north, the border has become quiet and the forces of Camelot and Escetia are disbanded to the bear minimum. But while the army is happy to return home, Dillon’s Men stay, roaming the border, looking for battles. Uther and Cenred let them, knowing that to try to stop them will just bring more trouble than it’s worth to their capitals. The prince is still seen at court, in both Camelot and Escetia and despite Uriens and Cenred’s attempts to stop it, he is still seen with Nimueh de l’Isle.

There are rumors that both Morgause and Cenred threatened to disown him and it seems even Nimueh has a stopping point, knowing when she can’t best an enemy.

Merlin has only seen Nimueh once since he first took his Rites. At one of Kilgharrah’s gathering, she shines out amongst the rest and Merlin is unable to look away, his magic drawn towards her despite him fighting it. She corners him in a hall on his way back from the kitchen with a cool smirk on her crimson lips.

“Turn,” she says and Merlin can only do what she says, his mind starting to go fuzzy at her close proximity and his magic is sparking under his skin. Her fingers untuck his shirt, pushing it and his tunic up, exposing his back and started Mearcung. He jumps as her fingers skim across the inked lines and gooseflesh breaks out over his skin. His magic is going crazy at her touch.

“Your name is spreading, young warlock,” she says, using Kilgharrah’s name for him mockingly. “Have you used your signal yet?”

“No,” Merlin breathes out, quaking under her touch and voice. 

“I thought not,” she says quietly and Merlin can hear her smirk. She gently straightens his clothing, putting him to rights. “Maybe one day, we will see whose magic is stronger.”

Nimueh knows full well what Kilgharrah uses Merlin and Freya for. She knows that Merlin is bait for her, but she will take the bait in her own time. Merlin learned patience from Kilgharrah. He hopes it will serve him well when it comes to Nimueh.

The Pict threat has faded some and where the soldiers of Camelot and Escetia are not, Dillon’s Men patrol, seeking glory where they can. Merlin learns later of what Kilgharrah had asked of his old friend that night at Freya’s debut.

Plaine de Bawes arrives from the northern regions of Albion with news. Only Kilgharrah, Merlin and Freya are there to hear it. The study is dim, only a few candles and the fire in the hearth lighting up the room. Kilgharrah sits to the side, pipe in hand as his friend talks.

“There are rumors, Sel Mon,” Plaine’s says quietly, sipping at his goblet of wine.

Merlin perks up, wondering why Plaine has called Kilgharrah Sel Mon, Great One. He doesn’t dare ask for fear that Kilgharrah will dismiss him and he won’t be allowed to hear Plaine’s news.

“There are always rumors, my friend. Albion would die of boredom if not for rumors,” Kilgharrah rumbles, blowing smoke towards the fire. The light turns it red and makes it look like he is blowing flames. “What rumor is it this time?”

Plaine sits forward, goblet held loosely in his hands. “They say that the Pictish tribes have found a leader. Their own Wigfruma.” The Wigfruma was an ancient king of Hibernia who had united the four houses of Hibernia in time to defend against an invasion from the lands to the south.

Kilgharrah laughs aloud at Plaine’s words. “Surely you jest? As if those squabbling tribes could ever unite. In fact, our border has never been so quiet.”

“My point exactly,” Plaine’s says and nods in thanks as Freya refills his goblet. “They have found someone who can think.”

Kilgharrah ponders his words. Although confined to the northern most portion of Albion and its mountains, the Pictish tribes are numerous in numbers, more numerous than the Hibernian tribes who are isolated to Albion’s west, confined by the Fisher King, not a threat to Albion. A united Pictish force is something else though.

“What are you saying?” Kilgharrah asks after a moment of silence.

“Not much, yet. The few Pict who venture from the mountains as mercenaries started the rumor, whispering it around the camp fires at night. And they change regularly, though most wouldn’t notice, replacing their numbers. I spoke with a merchant from the north and he confirmed that those he hired have changed multiple times now, never the same ones. They are growing cunning.”

“He believes they might be gathering information?” Kilgharrah asks, emptying his pipe and setting it to the side. “What for?”

“I don’t know, but they whisper a name: Selises Arrœk, the Cunning One. Last summer, there were no Pict to be seen along the border or among the caravans and it is rumored that Arrœk summoned a high council of the tribes. I also have word that one of Cenred’s men bore a message to him and it asked for his daughter, Dalia de la Escetia’ hand in marriage. It was signed King Selises Arrœk.” Plaine’s set his goblet down, empty. “These are only rumors, but it was said that Cenred laughed and tossed the message into the fire and sent the messenger back to deliver his message. The man was never seen again, as rumor would have it. I tell you, the borders are too quiet for this to be good.”

Kilgharrah let out a long sigh, “And meanwhile, the prince of Escetia and his men ride the border, seeking glory. You are right, this is worse than I first gave you credit for. If you can, keep an eye on the border and if you hear anything else, send word.”

Kilgharrah seems to finally realize that the two of them are in the room. “Merlin, Freya, off to bed with you. Plaine and I have much to discuss and none of it is for your ears.” Grumbling quietly, Merlin stood with Freya, bidding the two men good night.

~*~

Although Plaine’s news is unsettling, it is news from a different direction that has people stirring in interest. Word arrives of the death of the Frumgar of Hibernia, slain by his own son who sought to overturn the ancient matriarchal ways of succession and take kingship for himself.

The Frumgar’s true heir, his crippled nephew, is said to have fled with his mother and sisters and taken refuge among Wigend whose lord and lady gave them asylum on their western coastal lands.

Although few had cared about the Hibernian regency before, because of the Frumgar’s recent visit to Albion, this event draws people’s interest. In a joint effort between Camelot and Acestir, Petit Fils is ordered to sail his fleet along the coast, scouting the Hibernian coastline. Although it strengthens ties between Camelot and Acestir, it comes to naught since the Fisher King still controls the waters between the two lands. Petit leaves a small portion of his fleet on Camelot’s closest piece of land to Hibernia. Petit boasts of his cunning at one of Kilgharrah’s gatherings. He’s drunk but Merlin nods indulgingly.

Kilgharrah is summoned twice to the castle and says nothing afterwards.

The northern border remains quiet with no word from Plaine. Dillon’s men continue to roam the border and the prince himself splits his time between the border fighting, the Escetian court and Camelot’s court. Word of Cenred’s ire with Uther reaches the Emrys household. The Escetian king is put out that Uther chose Acestir over his own small fleet. Merlin isn’t sure it is Cenred Uther mistrusts, but his wife Morgause and her ambitions and that he uses the event to undermine her play for power.

Kilgharrah and Uriens have a falling out over this quarrel between the two kingdoms and although Merlin should probably pay more attention to what is going on, he can’t, too caught up in his own world of his youth and his magic. He doesn’t want to admit it, but it is starting to go to his head.

So far, Merlin has declined D’Cote’s offer three times and though Kilgharrah watches worriedly, he allows it, confident in Merlin’s ability to read D’Cote. Finally, he accepts D’Cote’s fourth and final offer. That night, D’Cote’s anger is like a raging storm.

It is also the night he takes the red-hot poker to Merlin’s skin and the night he finally lets slip his patron’s name.

Courtesans are not the only ones with patrons. Nearly everyone has a patron or patronizes someone and it is only the services that differ. Kilgharrah is one of the few people to stand apart from this system. Merlin thinks it is one of the reason D’Cote hates Kilgharrah so much. It is one reason he always presses Merlin so much at each meeting, to find out Kilgharrah’s motives.

Merlin knows that as soon as D’Cote uses the poker, D’Cote knows he’s crossed a line he shouldn’t have. For his part, Merlin can only lie where he is, hands bound over his head, ears ringing horribly, stomach roiling as the smell of burnt flesh registered in his mind. He is only barely holding onto consciousness, his magic raging inside, demanding to be let free, to protect him. Merlin holds it back with all he has.  
  
His stomach knots as D’Cote removes the poker from his outer thigh, the skin tearing sickeningly where it has burnt and stuck to the hot metal. In his pain fogged mind, Merlin hears D’Cote as if from a distance, can feel the man’s hand smacking the side of his face gently. “Merlin, Merlin, wake up child. Damn it all, wake up!”

His rough hands smooth over Merlin’s sweat dampened locks and his voice is brusque but gentle, gentler than he has even spoken to Merlin thus far. “Kay l’Ector will have my head if Kilgharrah makes a charge. Merlin, come child, wake up. Warlock, it is nothing but a burn, tis a small thing…”

Slowly, Merlin opens his eyes, fighting back unconsciousness and nausea until he can see properly, his magic quelling somewhat. D’Cote gives a mighty sigh of relief, swiftly untying Merlin’s hands. Gently lifting him into his arms, D’Cote strides from the room, shouting for his servant to call for his physician.

Kilgharrah is not pleaded when Merlin is returned, but he withholds comments, confining Merlin to his bed and calling upon Gaius, the king’s own physician, to see to Merlin. Gaius tuts at him, but says nothing, laying a soothing poultice across the burn, reducing the swelling and drawing anything from it that might cause an infection. He gently bandages the burn in soft cloth.

“I will return in two days to check on him,” Gaius says to Kilgharrah who has only just stopped pacing the short length of Merlin’s room. Freya is seated in a small chair out of both of their ways, holding onto Merlin’s hand firmly. “Check on it in the morning though, and if you smell the odor of mortification, send for me quickly.”

Kilgharrah nods and thanks him. Gaius turns to look at Merlin, “You are lucky young warlock. Try not to make a habit of this.” He pats Merlin’s uninjured leg on the knee and takes his leave. It’s not until Gaius has been shown out by one of the servants that Kilgharrah rounds on Merlin, eyes fiery in his anger and worry.

“I hope that this was worth it,” he says, tone rough with his emotions.

“You tell me, my lord,” Merlin says, wiggling a little, trying to get the pillows to prop him up better. Kilgharrah sighs and between him and Freya, they have Merlin sitting up properly.

“All right,” Kilgharrah says in an annoyed tone, “there is a small mountain’s worth of apology gifts for you from D’Cote and if he doesn’t stop soon, I expect the royal crown of Uther Pendragon will be next. What is so worth you becoming a braised rack of lamb?”

Merlin smirks, sinking into the cushions. “Breunor D’Cote answers to Kay l’Ector.” Duc l’Ector is Uther de la Pendragon’s cousin through marriage. He also has ties to the Tintagel royal family, being cousin to the Ygraine, Tristan, and Agravaine through blood.

“So D’Cote is the front for l’Ector’s ambitions,” Kilgharrah mused aloud. “I have always wondered what kept l’Ector in Camelot when he had more ties in Tintagel. Did you tell him anything?”

“My lord!” Merlin says aloud, sitting up in indignation that Kilgharrah would think such a thing of him.

“I’m sorry, but I had to be sure,” Kilgharrah says, helping to settle Merlin back against the mound of pillows. “Although this information is invaluable, promise me next time, you will use your signal.”

“I will do what I must to aid you, but I swear I did not know he would use the poker,” Merlin tells him sincerely. “My lord, who was Ygraine de la Pendragon to you, that even now she has such sway over you from the grave?”

“Sometimes young warlock, ignorance is best and in this it truly is. Were D’Cote to suspect that you truly knew something worthwhile about me, he would not be so gentle with you.” With a touch to Merlin’s head, he bid the warlock to sleep and heal.

When Gaius returns two days later, he pronounces Merlin to be healing just fine. He gives the warlock a cream to place on the healing burn that will keep the flesh from scaring to horribly and will aid in the growth of new skin.

Kilgharrah forbids Merlin from seeing any more patrons until he is fully healed, so instead he spends his time with Gwaine. Gwaine has risen in station as much as Merlin has and after a heated and long debate with his mother, he eventually gets her to relent some of her hard earned money and buys the building their small home is in. With the rent coming in from their new tenants and the earnings his mother brings in, they live comfortably now, allowing his mother to take in fewer loads of laundry.

This is a good thing, for Gwaine’s mother is not a young woman anymore, her frame thinning and height shrinking, though she still has the muscle from her youth. She smiles softly at Merlin when he arrives, relaxing on one of her not-so-rare-anymore days off. He and Gwaine are soon off, ensconcing themselves at their usual table in the pub.

“So D’Cote is in L’Ector’s pocket,” Gwaine says with a low whistle as Merlin tells him news. “That is something. What does Kilgharrah make of it?”

“Nothing,” Merlin says waspishly. “He gets close-lipped and sprouts off things about ignorance being the smart path. Yet I think he tells Freya things he wouldn’t tell me because she known him longer.” Merlin took a large gulp of his ale, brows furrowed in annoyance.

Gwaine just grins and tosses a coin into the air and catches it, plays it over his knuckles and has it disappear. A trick he’d learned from one of their tenants in return for rent. “You’re jealous.”

“No!” Merlin says hotly and then stops and sighs. “Yes…”

“Has he bedded her yet?” Gwaine asks Merlin.

“No, Kilgharrah isn’t like that, he would never do that,” Merlin says, looking at Gwaine.

Gwaine just shrugs good-naturedly, “Perhaps not, but you have to consider the possibility.”

“No, he is freer with her because her patrons are not as dangerous as mine, or not inclined towards violence. They’ve been in the thick of it ever since he took her to court when the Frumgar was here and had her pose as a scribe. I don’t get why though when the Frumgar is slain and another rules in his place.”

There was a lull in the noise of the pub and someone spoke up behind them. “Pay heed; do not discount the Read Heorot.” They both turned to look but like the time before that, no one was there. Merlin felt a shiver run up his spin and Gwaine looked wary.

“What does it mean?” Gwaine asks.

“The Read Heorot means the Red Hart. It is the symbol of the Frumgar’s line, the line under which his true heir rules. ‘Do not discount the red hart.’” It was just as clear as the first had been and Merlin wondered what it could possibly mean.

When Merlin returns home, he tells Kilgharrah of what he heard. He is in a foul mood and dismisses Merlin’s words. “It was probably someone you couldn’t see.”

“Someone who can speak Hibernian, my lord?” Merlin asks. “I’ve heard it once before and they said I would rue the day I found my answers to my questions about you.”

Kilgharrah’s brows lowered, “Is that so?” Merlin nods.

Freya comes in with a fresh jug of wine, refilling all of their goblets. “My lord, you remember I told you about the Hibernian delegation’s whisperings of why they crossed the strait. They said they followed a vision of a red hart and a golden dragon.”

Kilgharrah hums softly, mulling over their words. “Freya, send word to Juliana de Listinoise tomorrow. Tell her I wish to speak with her.” Freya just nods.

~*~

What Kilgharrah wished to speak of to Juliana, Merlin never learns, but his mind is elsewhere at this time. Nimueh de l’Isle is holding a birthday celebration for Prince Dillon de la Escetia. She contracts the entirety of the Fire branch of the Moonlight Court for the night and invites all three of them to the celebration.

Nimueh is an incredibly wealthy woman, the l’Isle estates are extensive and prosperous and with the added estates of her two deceased husbands, Nimueh lives very comfortably and yet if it weren’t for the rumors surrounding the deaths of these two husbands, Morgause would have considered Nimueh a good match for Prince Dillon.

The city is abuzz with excitement for the Prince’s party. Invitations written in ink that only becomes visible when it is handled by its intended and that give off a fragrance favorable of the invitee are sent out and everyone applauds the use of magic.

“My entire household? I hope you are not implying that you wish them to be part of you contract with the Fire Branch?” Kilgharrah asks as she hands them each an individually rolled scroll. Kilgharrah opens his and the smell of sulfur impregnates the room briefly before he rolls it shut.

“Tut, tut, Kilgharrah, you think so poorly of me. This is why I came to deliver them myself. This is my party and I invite them because they are interesting. They shall be guests, not entertainment.” She smirks just as Freya opens hers and the smell of lavender floods the room briefly.

“I thought the party was Prince Dillon’s?” Kilgharrah asks.

“The party is for the Prince, but it is still my party, Kilgharrah. Surely you can tell that much.”

“If you think you can get the prince to defy his viper of a mother, you are mistaken and will only walk away with fang bites for your trouble,” Kilgharrah says with a smirk and an arched brow.

She laughs softly at his words. “Oh, Kilgharrah, you never stop fishing, do you? If you do not wish to attend…?”

“No, we will attend, you can be sure of that,” he says.

“I look forward to it then,” she answers and curtsies slightly before turning and leaving. Before she leaves the room, she looks at Merlin who still hasn’t opened his invitation yet. Sending him a smirk and blowing a kiss, she finishes her exit.

“Whatever happens, keep your eyes open you two. Nimueh does nothing without reason and though I can see no purpose yet, I still feel something will happen soon.” Letting a small sigh escape, Kilgharrah leaves his two pupils in the study, striding out through Nimueh’s exit.

Merlin waits until he’s in his room to open the invitation. His appears as shining gold ink and the scent of the forest wafts up to his nose. His magic reacts a little at the slight spark of Nimueh’s magic that resides in the invitation. Setting it aside, he gets his magic under control even as memories of Nimueh’s departure appear in his mind.

~*~

They cut a striking image, the three of them. With Kilgharrah in a dark forest green doublet trimmed in silver thread and black hose, Freya in a flattering lavender dress, and Merlin in a red tunic and brown hose, all cut to fit them perfectly, they stand out even amongst Nimueh’s higher up entourage.

Merlin fiddles with the edge of his cloak. A new knife courtesy of D’Cote’s apology gifts, hangs at his belt, shining in the candlelight. “Are you all right?” Freya asks as the carriage pulls up in front of the Court.

“I’m fine,” Merlin says with a smile, forcing himself to still his fidgeting hands. They descend from the carriage to the Prince’s party already in full swing.

Merlin can’t help but stare. Never in his life has he seen the Court so. All the doors and windows stand open, light streaming out from hundreds of candles and torches. Garlands and vases of flowers overflow everywhere, weaving their delicate scents with the smell of roasting meat and human sweat. Voices flood the air, people’s laughter, shouts, moans mingling with music, the noise a cacophony of sound, pounding on his ears. Everything had been paid for by Nimueh, including the members of the Court.

Merlin feels a spark of envy. To be bought for the night, able to be with whomever he chooses, no matter if they have information or not, it is a heady thought. For a moment, Merlin wishes he was still at the Court. And then it hits him that he’s a guest here. 

They are escorted into the main hall of the Court, torches and candles illuminating every nook and cranny of the room. The last time Merlin had been in here was the Midwinter Masquerade as a child of ten. It is decorated gaily, flourishes of color splashing the walls, people in silks and velvets of such bright colors that they seem to glow dancing and chatting.

A man in livery stops them, taking their cloaks as another announces their names to the crowd. “Merlin,” someone calls out and he turns to see Dame Fors standing behind him. 

She has aged, gray threading through her hair, but her skin is still smooth except for a few lines and her eyes are still bright. She smiles warmly at him, arms opened in greeting. Merlin steps forward into her embrace, her perfume rolling off of her subtly, a floral fragrance. “Welcome back, dear,” she whispers to him.

He pulls away, smiling and nodding and tackled from the side. Staggering, he holds himself and Gwen up, stopping their fall. “Merlin,” she says joyously, hugging him fiercely.

“Must you jump on me every time I come here?” he asks her with a wide grin.

“Sorry,” Gwen says, blushing and stepping back to brush her dress down.

Dame steps forward, “I must speak with Kilgharrah, go enjoy yourself dear.” Nodding, Merlin watches the two of them fade into the crowd.

Gwen and Freya grab him by an arm and tug him through the crowd. When Gwen tugs them into an empty room, he frowns, wondering why they are in there. “I wanted to show you something,” she admits. Reaching behind her, she unfastens her dress, tugging at the shoulders, the pale yellow material sliding down.

Turning, Merlin and Freya let out a collective gasp. Gwen’s Mearcung is completely finished. It is a riot of color; twining white lilies, daisies, and iris cover her upper back, the green of their stems flowing to rest just above the dip of her buttock. Flecks of yellow stand out against the white of the flowers.

“It’s beautiful,” Freya whispers. She steps forward to help Gwen redo her dress.

“When did you finish it?” Merlin asks.

“Last month. I’ve been meaning to meet up with you, but I’ve been busy, what with preparing for this party.” Dress back in place, she smiles at him. “I’m leaving the court for good.”

Merlin’s heart stutters, but he puts a smile on his face. “Where will you go then?”

“Don’t be angry. I’ve been thinking about this for a while now. I never really belonged here what with me having no magic. And though I’m grateful for Dame taking me in, this isn’t where I wish to spend the rest of my life,” Gwen explains, cupping his cheek.

“When are you leaving?” he asks.

“Tomorrow. Dame contacted someone she knows for work on the Du Lac family grounds as an assistant to their gardener. You know how I always loved to garden,” Merlin nods, throat closing up.

“Will I get to see you again?” Merlin asks.

“Of course, you silly man. You won’t get rid of me that easily,” Gwen says hotly, hugging him around the neck, Merlin wrapping his arms tightly around the waist of his oldest friend. Pulling away from him, Gwen turns to Freya. “I’ll miss you as well.” The two hug,

“I’ve already spoken to Gwaine and he told me to tell you two that if you ever need to send me a letter, just send it through him and it will get to me,” she informs them. Merlin nods. “Now come, there’s a party for all and this should be a happy night.” She grabs them by the arm and tugs them out of the room.

As they make their way through the crowds, they come upon a throng of people in front of the dais at the head of the room. Kilgharrah is there as well, eyeing the group seated on the dais. Prince Dillon de la Escetia sat with a two of his higher ranking men and Nimueh de l’Isle.

“Well, look who has arrived,” Dillon says aloud, nudging the man to his right. He stretches back, staring down regally at the four of them. “My lord Kilgharrah, I so hope you have made up with my kinsmen Uriens. He did so speak fondly of you and it pains me to see him unhappy over your quarrel. Tell me what have you brought, more charming bedfellows?”

“You have a good humor, your majesty. May I introduce to you my two wards, Freya nó Emrys and Merlin nó Emrys. We come bearing wishes for your good health on this joyous occasion of your birth,” Kilgharrah says evenly, bowing. Merlin and Freya follow likewise.

One of the Court steps forward with a wrapped gift, handing it to Kilgharrah. Thanking the girl, he walks forward to hand it to the prince. “For you, your majesty.” The prince doesn’t even open it, setting it aside with a nod.

“It is much appreciated; you and your…guests have leave to enjoy yourself.” Merlin sees Freya flush slightly, but Kilgharrah just bows again.

“That’s him, the warlock that I’ve been hearing about. Look at his eyes,” the man on Dillon’s left exclaims standing up. Drawing his sword, he goes to lift Merlin’s tunic, “Come, warlock, show us some magic.”

Before Merlin can even react, the sound of metal on metal rings through the hall and Kilgharrah’s sword it out, the soldier’s sword on the ground. The man wrings his hand from the impact, glaring at Kilgharrah.

“Your majesty, may I remind you that my wards are not only under my protection, but yours and my lady Nimueh’s, as well as being guests?” Kilgharrah says smoothly to the prince who is standing, hand resting on the hilt of his own sword.

“You’ve made your point, you old dragon, no need to blow smoke at me. Leave the children alone, boys. We have the whole of the court to entertain us.” Sheathing his sword, Kilgharrah steps back to allow the man to retrieve his sword from the ground.

Dillon’s eyes return to Merlin a moment later, taking in the flecks of gold in Merlin’s eyes and sliding down his frame. “A true warlock, huh?” Nimueh smirks and leans over, whispering something into his ear. He smirks at her words, kissing the back of her hand. “You are brilliant, my lady.” Seeing those gathered around the dais, he sits back. “If you wish to please me, go, enjoy yourselves. I command it.”

Kilgharrah snorts but complies, stepping back and leading, Merlin, Freya, and Gwen away from the dais. Merlin glances back once to see Nimueh following their path. Unnerved, Merlin slips away, letting the flow of the crowds carry him where they will.

Thirsty, Merlin searches out a drink bearer and finds one stationed along the wall. Her eyes are down and she holds the tray of drinks out. As he grabs a goblet of wine, he lets his fingers brush against her hand. She glances up, cheeks flushed a little. Feeling a little uncomfortable from this side of the scene, he smiles and walks off, ignoring her questioning glance.

Merlin tries to pay attention as Kilgharrah had asked them to but the wine and the music and the heat all play to distract him, making him feel buoyant, as if floating through the other guests. What he does hear is nothing new: talk about the king and is ailments, the princess and heir and her lack of marriage, the restless Pict.

Growing warm in the mass of people, Merlin starts to make his way out, hoping for some cool air to clear his head. Following an old familiar path to the back garden, he stops as a familiar voice sounds. Stepping back into the shadows, he listens.

“Why do you constantly refuse me?” Reynold Gunter asks, voice strained with anger and frustration.

Merlin starts as Freya’s voice answers him, cool and aloof, “I had not expected to see you here tonight, sir. Tintagel and Escetia are not known to be friends.”

“But they are not enemies either. The Lady Nimueh pays well for the information a trader might pick up, especially that concerning the royal lines. I am just a lowly merchant and must make my keep somehow. Why have you not accepted any of my offers for your trade?” His voice is wheedling.

Merlin can hear the sound of cloth rustling, as if Freya has shaken Reynold off. “I am a practitioner of the Old Religion, not some back alley whore. I have accepted your offer seven times and seven times you have paid you contract and given nothing in offering towards my Mearcung!”

“I will this time, I swear. A patron-gift of your choosing, whatever it is you desire, it will be yours.” Reynold’s voice shakes in his desperation.

Freya takes a breath and blows it out, “Enough to finish my Mearcung and the answer to Kilgharrah’s question. That is my price.”

“You ask too much,” he says, breathing coming in a sharp gasp.

“It is the only price I will accept,” she says firmly. Merlin presses against the wall, straining to hear all that is happening. “Merlin feels a twinge of guilt. He had known for some time that Freya did not enjoy the act of homage as Merlin did, but he had been so caught up in himself that he had never realized how much she disliked it.

“If I pay this, I will not see you again,” he says, trying to reason.

“If you pay it, you will see me once more. If you do not, you will never see me again,” she says, voice like steel.

Reynold gives out a pained moan. “It is too much. I need to think on it.”

Freya does not reply and Merlin presses further back into the shadows as Reynold leaves. As Freya leaves, Merlin leans forward to get a glimpse of her face. Her jaw is set and her eyes hard. A fine tremor runs through her body as the shock of the deal she just struck hits her.

She starts to walk away and Merlin lets her. As her footsteps fade, he emerges from the shadows and goes in the opposite direction. He emerges in the back gardens of the Court. They are still as he remembers, the fountain off to the side, the vine covered trellis on the back wall. But even here, Merlin is not alone. Lovers cling to each other under the moonlight.

He feels alone for the first time since he was a child. He wishes Gwaine were here. At least then he could laugh with his friend.

“Merlin.”

He knows that voice and turns to see Nimueh de l’Isle standing behind him, surrounded by night blooming flowers and moonlight. The light makes her pale skin glow and her eyes are as dark as the sky between the stars.

“Why are you here alone?” she asks. “Would you reject my hospitality so easily?”

Merlin shakes his head, clearing away the thought from earlier. He needs a clear head when dealing with this woman. “No, my lady.”

“Good,” she is close enough that Merlin can smell her perfume and feel the heat radiating from her body. “Do you know what is said about the very first warlock?” Merlin shakes his head, his senses already spinning out of control. “It is said that an ancient king offered him all the riches of the world, if the warlock would stop the great change from happening and that the man refused for his love of the balance of the Old Religion.”

Running a hand along his cheek, she caresses his skin, leaving a trail of fire in her wake. “I believe I have found the perfect gift for Prince Dillon tonight.” Sharp finger tips grip his chin in a harsh grip, pulling his head down hard and she kisses him.

Merlin gasps as she lets him go, falling to the rim of the fountain behind him. He presses a hand to his lips as he fights to control his magic as it roils in his body, fighting to be free of his control. Pulling his hand away from his mouth, he sees red. She had bitten his lip.

“Unfortunately, he is well entertained here and I promised to join him. I will talk with your mater on the morrow about making arrangements. I own him that much of a farewell gift,” she says, straightening her dress. She turns and beckons to a young man waiting in the shadows. “Merlin is my guest. See that he is well pleased.” He bows gracefully as Nimueh leaves.

~*~

Merlin isn’t sure if the others availed themselves of Nimueh’s hospitality like he did, but Kilgharrah gives his disheveled appearance a sidelong glance and a smirk on the carriage ride home.

True to her word, Nimueh sends a man around the next morning to Kilgharrah pay her a visit. Merlin spends Kilgharrah’s time away reading up on a book that Gaius had given him sometime back. It contained stories and legends of past warlocks and their feats. It is in Druidic and he spends most of his time translating it and honing his skills that have been neglected.

Merlin is still awake when Kilgharrah returns to find him curled up in a chair near the fire, reading the spidery and faded script on the yellowing pages. He arches a brow and Merlin lowers the book, using a piece of scrap parchment to mark his spot in the book. “You have somehow caught Prince Dillon’s eye and Nimueh has a mind to buy him a night with you.”

Merlin shrugs, setting the book on the table. “Is it not to our advantage? You know I am prudent when it comes to both of them.”

“You are agreeable then?” Merlin nods and he sighs, taking a seat next to the fire. He notices Merlin’s translations on the table and picks them up.

“How could I not be? With Uriens still mad at you and Sharia Gairn out of favor with Morgause, we have no channels into Escetia,” Merlin says, sitting forward.

“Prince Dillon de Escetia has not only been raised by Morgause and Cenred since birth, he has Nimueh in his shadow, controlling the strings. He is a dangerous man should he catch you at your game. You must promise me you will keep your lips sealed. One word from Nimueh and he will have you head, young warlock.” He set the parchment down, finished reading it. “A fair translation. Make a copy and I will send it to Plaine. He has interest in such things.”

Merlin nods to Kilgharrah. “My lady Nimueh is your friend, do you trust her so little to think she would betray you?”

Taking up his pipe, he lit it with a taper from the fire. Sucking in a drag, he let the smoke out with a mighty gust. “Nimueh has always played a subtle game, and I do not know what it is she plays at. If our paths were ever to cross, I would not rely too heavily on our friendship to see me through. She knows at what lengths I will go to‒,” Kilgharrah stops his words. “It matters not. Just remember my words in that she is not to be trusted and say nothing to her, young warlock.”

“Was she your lover?” Merlin asks, wondering what their connection is besides friendship.

Kilgharrah smirks, “A long time ago.” His words give nothing away and Merlin frowns a little. “We are well matched, but that wasn’t one of them. Or it could be we were too well matched.” Taking another drag, he let it out slowly. “If it is your wish to accept the contract, then I will have it drawn up.”

“It is.”

~*~

The date is set for some weeks ahead. Merlin busies himself with the translations for Plaine de Bawes. They are interesting to Merlin, but when he shows them to Freya, she only skims them briefly. He can’t blame her though.

A week has passed since she gave Reynold her price and there has still been no word back. Merlin holds his tongue about his knowledge of Freya’s demand, not even telling Kilgharrah. He does speak of it with Alice when she drags him away to the hot springs.

“You are right not to interfere. This is between Freya and the Balance. If her heart is true, all will right itself in the end,” Alice says, relaxing into the heated water.

“Her heart has always been true,” Merlin says with a smile, remembering his sister of choice.

“Then all shall be fine in the end,” Alice says with conviction.

~*~

Eventually, the day finally arrives for Merlin’s assignation. With it arrives clothing from Nimueh, an entire outfit made of cloth-of-gold. Merlin can’t help but caress the cloth. Merlin has never lacked for fine clothing since he came to be a part of Kilgharrah’s household, but he has never had something as fine as this.

Freya sits on his bed as he turns in the mirror, adjusting a hem there and a line there until he is satisfied. 

“Be careful, Merlin,” she says softly.

“I am always careful,” Merlin assures her, looking at her dark eyes through the mirror’s reflection.

“You weren’t careful with D’Cote and you will not be careful with Nimueh. You lose yourself every time she is near, I’ve seen it. And she knows what we are.”

“I am for the prince tonight, not Nimueh,” Merlin says instead of admitting her words right.

“She will still be there. I have heard rumors that she is the spark for his desire,” she tells him.

“I will be careful,” Merlin says softly. The carriage arrives and no more is said as they descend the stairs. Kilgharrah waits at the door to inspect him.

“Good,” he says, voice a deep rumble as he settles Merlin’s cloak over his shoulders, the deep blue-black contrasting sharply with the cloth-of-gold. “A member of the house of Emrys with a Prince of Escetia. Who would have thought this to be?” he says softly, a smirk playing over his lips. “Be wary, young warlock. I would hate to have to find another one as skilled as you,” Kilgharrah jokes softly.

Grinning, Merlin walks out with Will a silent shadow at his back. 

Merlin isn’t sure how many residents Nimueh has, but he does know that she has one in the city. He had assumed it would be close to the castle, but instead it is on the outskirts of the city, butting up against the forests that surround Camelot. She uses it for private entertaining, for her and Prince Dillon.

Merlin is surprised when the servants open the door and Nimueh is standing there to welcome him like a guest. “Merlin,” she says with a smile, lips painted their usual crimson. “I do not believe you have been formally introduced yet to Prince Dillon de la Escetia?”

“Your majesty,” Merlin says with a bow.

“I am honored to have one so touched by the Old Religion to accept my invitation,” he says, pulling Merlin up with a hand to his chin. Up close he is handsomer than Merlin remembers. His face is tanned, a thin scar running up the side of his face. Crisp curling locks, like his fathers, accent the sharp lines of his face and bring out the honeyed highlights in his dark brown eyes.

“Come,” Nimueh says softly, laying a hand on Merlin shoulder. His magic sparks under his skin and for a second he trembles, caught between the two of them. “Would you play for us?” she asks and Merlin has to drag in a steadying breath before he can nod.

She motions to a servant who has just appeared. “See to Kilgharrah’s man.” The servant bows and leads Will away as Merlin follows Nimueh and Dillon into an adjoining room.

It takes Merlin a second to draw up the skills to play the small lute. It has been some years since he last played for anyone by request and even longer since he played for pleasure. Feeling clumsy, he starts to play until his fingers warm up and the music sounds as it should.

Servants serve the two seated at the table, bringing course after course. Nimueh and Dillon speak in low hushed tones, eating and feeding each other as Merlin plays.

As the last dish is served and cleared away, Nimueh turns to Merlin, “Come join us.” Setting the lute aside, Merlin stands and walks over to stand next to them at the table. “Drink,” she says handing him a goblet of wine. Merlin drinks deeply, thirsty after so long playing, and savors the rich wine.

“You were raised at the Court,” Dillon says sipping from his goblet, “are you as delicate as some of the members there seemed to be?” He stands and circles to stand behind Merlin.

“No, sire,” Merlin says softly, ignoring the desire to defend his old home. Sword calloused hands grip at his waist, pulling him back until he is pressed up against the prince. He can feel the prince’s cock stir against his arse through the layers of clothing and Merlin’s breathe catches in his throat.

“Merlin is a warlock, my prince. He is by no means delicate,” Nimueh purrs from across the table, sipping at her wine with smirking lips.

“It is hard to imagine so much power in one body,” he says softly, running a hand up Merlin’s side. “And yet you speak truthfully,” he says, thumbing at Merlin nipple, drawing a soft inhale from Merlin. “And dressed fit for a prince as well.” Strong fingers dig into his hair, pulling Merlin’s head back, bearing his neck as Dillon sucked at the pale skin there. “Shall I have him for dessert?” he asks, looking at Nimueh with a laugh.

“You have all night, my prince. This is but the first round. Have him on the table if you truly wish,” she says, settling back into her chair.

The hand in his hair lowers to Merlin’s neck, pressing him forward until he is bent over the table, cheek mashed into the fine linen tablecloth. With one hand Dillon yanks down Merlin hose and undoes his own breeches.

Merlin had prepared himself before hand and the prince gives a low growl of approval as he thrusts into Merlin. Prince Dillon is no green lad to end it all quickly and Merlin can only gasp and clutch at the cloth beneath him as the man behind him moves with long, slow thrusts, pulling humiliating whimpers from Merlin’s throat.

The chair creaks as Nimueh stands and her dress rustles as she comes to stand behind the prince. “Drive him hard, my love,” she says with a sultry voice, “I want to watch him come from your thrusts alone.”

Merlin can only gasp and whine as Dillon’s thrusts drive him on and over the edge. He claws at the cloth, arching off of the table, as much as he can with Dillon’s hand still pressing him to the table. Dillon gives a howl, spending himself inside Merlin; thrusts slowing as he works himself through the aftershocks.

“I need to get me one of these,” he says panting as he pulls out of Merlin. Merlin straightens uncomfortably, fixing his clothing.

“Unfortunately, Merlin is a thing of rarity and he is pledged to Kilgharrah and the Balance. Besides, this was just a taste. There is more to be had…unless you wish to give the signal?” Nimueh asks, turning to look at Merlin.

Merlin shakes his head. He will not speak that word to Prince Dillon and certainly not to Nimueh while she serves his pleasure. “Well, then, let us play.”

Nimueh leads them down a short hall to another room. Inside is a whole play chamber from a bed set into a corner, to the flogging posts on the other side of the room. Merlin gulps slightly, but bites his tongue.

They usher him into the room and gently strip the cloth-of-gold from his body until he stands naked in the room. Shivering at a slight draft, he allows himself to be tied to the posts. With his arms and legs outstretched eagle-style, he is exposed. Merlin shivers again.

“How is it done?” Dillon asks, not on who usually uses toys. “Do I give a Pictish war cry and charge him?” he asks in jest. “Selises Arrœk!” he shouts and laughs again. Merlin flinches at the name.

“You may do it however you wish,” Nimueh says, walking around to see Merlin’s face. She has a flogger in her hand, the thin pieces of soft leather swinging with each step she takes. Stepping up behind him, she makes sure he is secured to the posts before stepping back.

“Like this,” she says and then lines of warmth run down Merlin’s back. She hadn’t hit hard enough to properly damage the skin, but the welts left will certainly be there for a few days. Merlin flinches as the flogger cracks and instead of lines, there are points of heat on his skin, only the tips of the leather striking his skin.

It goes on for some time with Nimueh showing Dillon the different ways to wield the instrument. After a while though, the prince grows bored with the warlock and tugs Nimueh over to the bed, leaving Merlin strapped to the posts.

Merlin isn’t sure when he passed out, but he wakes up in a bed in one of Nimueh’s guest chambers. His back is a little sore, but other than that he feels fine. A servant leads him to the dining room from the night before, Nimueh already seated at it, sipping at her tea.

She smiles as Merlin walks in. “The carriage is ready and Kilgharrah’s man is waiting for you.” She places a purse on the table between them. “The clothing is yours to keep and this is a patron-gift, to honor the Balance.” She smirks again as he picks up the pouch, feeling the heavy coins inside. “You are indeed a gift fit for a prince, Merlin.”

“Thank you, my lady.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “Fit for a farewell gift, my lady? Who is saying goodbye?”

She laughs softly, “Kilgharrah’s pupil indeed. I will tell you if you tell me what you know of Selises Arrœk.”

Merlin doesn’t reply and she laughs again. Standing she comes around to kiss him on the cheek. “Give Kilgharrah my regards. One day, perhaps we can meet again, young warlock, and there will be no prince between us.”

Merlin shudders as she leaves. Shaking himself free of her spell, he walks out.

~*~

Merlin doesn’t even wait for Kilgharrah to summon him to his study. The moment he steps out of the carriage, he walks towards the study where he knows the man to be waiting. Although he does not tell Kilgharrah everything, some things are better left unsaid; he lays everything else on the table for Kilgharrah to pick through.

He frowns, thinking over all that Merlin has told him. “Dillon thought it was a Pictish war cry?” Merlin nods. “Did he give any sign that the words meant aught else to him?” Remembering the way he had laughed, Merlin shakes his head. Prince Dillon is ignorant of what the words truly mean.

“No, he joked about it, but he knew not what they meant. They meant something to Nimueh though.” Merlin leans forward, elbows braced against his knees.

“And he gave no acknowledgement that you were a…what did Nimueh call it? A farewell gift?”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, he gave no indication he knew and Nimueh only spoke of it when we were alone.” Merlin frowns, remembering how Kilgharrah had brought Nimueh to flaunt Merlin in front of her so many years before. “She wants an audience and she has chosen you, my lord. Whatever is to happen, she wants you to know that she is the hand behind it.”

Kilgharrah turns solemn eyes on Merlin. “You may be right, but the question remains: what is to occur?”

~*~

A week goes by before they learn of Nimueh’s goal.

It is Uriens de Isidore who brings the news to the Emrys household, too stunned by the news to remember his quarrel with Kilgharrah.

They are roused from their beds by the clatter of hooves in the courtyard and Uriens’ unmistakable bellow from below, “Kilgharrah!” Merlin has known the Comte de Isidore since he was a child and never has he heard the man yell so.

They all scramble out of their beds, throwing on the closest garments. Kilgharrah is fastest, already dressed and sword in hand as he reaches the main door at the bottom of the staircase. Will appears from a different direction, silent as a ghost, sword in hand as well. Merlin and Freya are close behind.

Surrounded by his men-at-arms, Uriens sits atop his horse white as a ghost, oblivious to the sword in Kilgharrah’s hand. His horse is trembling, sweat coating its flanks as its sides heave with each breath. Uriens tightens his grip on the reins and the horse shifts under him.

“Valiant d’Alene has just accused House Escetia of high treason,” he says grimly.

“You must be joking,” Kilgharrah bites out as he lowers his sword.

Uriens shakes his head. “No. He has proof: letters, addressed to Morgause from Vela of Hibernia, the wife of the late Frumgar.”

“How?” Kilgharrah asks.

“Messenger birds.” The horse shifts again and Uriens quiets the beast. “They’ve been corresponding since the Frumgar’s visit. What do I do? I am innocent in this matter, but I have a home and family to think of. Uther has already sent his fastest riders to the Comte de Dieu. He is mustering the royal army. He means war.”

Merlin turns to look at Kilgharrah and can see the wheels turning in his head. “You say you knew nothing of this?”

Uriens stiffens in the saddle, looking offended. “You know me, my friend. I am loyal to the Pendragon family, despite my family ties.”

“There will be a trial. Uther will not let this go without one, despite it being Cenred’s own family.” Kilgharrah paces a few steps before stopping and turning back around. “Send your three fastest men to Isidore. Tell them to turn out the guard and admit no one unless they bear orders in Uther’s own hand. We will send a letter to Pellinore de Dieu, there is still time to intercept him. He knows you and will not move against Isidore without orders from the king. This is Morgause’s doing, not the entire line. He will not punish the whole line for her misdeeds.”

Some of the tension seems to bleed from the tired man’s shoulders. “Prince Dillon has been implicated as well.”

Merlin draws in a sharp breath and Freya grips his elbow, shaking her head in warning. Kilgharrah doesn’t even react to the noise.

“You better come in,” Kilgharrah says to Uriens, “and tell me everything you know. Get your men moving and we will write the letter. We shall petition Uther. He is no fool, he will hear you out.”

Uriens nods after a moment and dismounts, giving orders to his men and tossing them his purse for the journey. They leave in a clatter of hooves until the sound fades away. Voices can be heard shouting the news in the distance of Camelot. “Come in,” Kilgharrah repeats.

Kilgharrah orders food and wine brought. Uriens seems to settle with each bite and sip until he is no longer jerking at each sound that is heard from outside. Merlin and Freya hover in the background, making themselves useful as they wait for Uriens to tell what he knows.

“What happened?” Kilgharrah asks.

Uriens lays it out as best as he can from the limited information he has gleaned or was given from a friend who is one of Uther’s lords-in-waiting. Uriens had come directly to Kilgharrah the moment he had heard, not knowing where else to go or who else to turn to.

The story is that Valiant d’Alene had learned of the accusation through the drunken boasting of one of Dillon’s men, deep in his cups on leave after a patrol of the border. D’Alene had investigated and upon finding proof, had taken it straight to Uther, riding day and night to reach Camelot. Without waiting for an audience to be granted, he had stormed into a public hearing with his accusation: Morgause le Fey de la Escetia had conspired with Vela of Hibernia and her son, the new Frumgar, to join forces. Backed by a Hibernian army, she planned to invade Camelot from two different fronts and place Prince Dillon on the throne of the combined kingdoms. In exchange, she would put the forces of Escetia to aid the Frumgar in his attack against the Wigend and their allies to secure his throne in Hibernia. They would have little hope to stop the Fisher King, but hoping they could distract him long enough to ferry the Hibernian ships across, they would use the conquered Camelot navy to secure a passage back across the strait.

“A clever plan,” Uriens says, sipping morosely at his goblet of wine. “If D’Alene hadn’t proved loyal to the crown, despite being Dillon’s friend, he would have gotten away with it.”

Kilgharrah asks gently, “And what of Cenred?” Uriens had never lost any sleep over a friendship with Morgause, but he and Cenred had been friends as children, and he and his cousin were still close.

“If I knew, I would tell you, my friend. In my heart I would never think he could do such a thing, but with him at odds with Uther over the slight with Petit Fils’ fleet and his pride, I do not know. He has long felt slighted by Uther’s flaunting of his fleet and army. If Morgause presented him with her plan altogether…I don’t know.”

“I understand,” Kilgharrah says, resting a hand on his knee. “How did D’Alene get the letters?”

Merlin knows the answer before Uriens even speaks it, “Nimueh de l’Isle.”

Merlin goes to speak and Kilgharrah sends him a warning look. Merlin’s not stupid enough to divulge his knowledge of Nimueh’s involvement. “Dillon was under her thrall. Why give him up when he stood to gain the throne?”

Uriens laughs darkly. “I would like to say it is because she is loyal to the throne, but that is untrue. It was most likely she knew Morgause would never allow her to marry her step-son. Morgause wants an obedient daughter-in-law, preferably one with connections and money. I highly doubt that if Dillon hasn’t defied her yet, he ever would have over Nimueh. Nimueh is formidable, but she is no match for the Viper of Escetia.”

If Merlin hadn’t been Nimueh’s farewell gift to Dillon, he might have believed Uriens’ words, but he knows Nimueh is far too smart to simply throw Prince Dillon away without having a way to gain from it. The “proof” that she had acquired was most likely laid weeks if not months in advance. The treachery is real though, despite Nimueh’s plans. Morgause is an ambitious woman in her own right.

They will have to hold their tongues and allow Nimueh to gain the praise of being “loyal” to the crown. She and Duc d’Alene will gain greatly from this. People always say that warriors think with their swords, but Merlin isn’t so sure the Duc d’Alene fits that mold.

The next few days are full of tensions and tempers as war is narrowly avoided. Prince Dillon and his step-mother, who has been visiting a friend in Camelot, are brought before the high council for trial. Cenred arrives soon after the accusation is made, escorted by the Comte de Dieu’s soldiers, as well as his daughter Dalia de la Escetia. Under the laws of the five kingdoms, all shall be questioned before the high council to prove either their innocence or guilt in the matter.

As the royal army sweeps through Camelot on its way to the border, Uther hears Uriens petition. Granting him clemency to the house of Isidore, he places Uriens under house arrest until the start of the trial.

Kilgharrah is called in to testify on Uriens behalf, his loyalty still in question. Merlin and Freya are able to attend and Merlin has little time to take in the splendor of the castle for the first time. There are no seats for the attending nobles, but the three of them find standing room to the side with a good view.

Uther sits on his throne. To his right is Morgana and around them sit the twenty-seven other nobles who have been chosen for the trial, nobles from all five kingdoms. The Palace Guard stand at attention behind the table on the raised dais and two Knights stand at attention behind Uther and Morgana’s seats, their black tunics giving away their purpose.

Morgause le Fey de la Escetia is the first to be brought forth for questioning. Merlin has only seen Morgause once from a distance, but has heard tales all his life of this formidable woman, the Viper of Escetia. She sweeps into the hall with her head high, blonde locks shining under the torchlight. She is dressed in House Le Fey colors, the purple and black marking her for what she is, half-sister to Morgana. Shackles wrap around her wrists, something she had demanded be done.

For her part, Morgause neither admits nor denies anything as the proof is offered up to her, her chin rising. She does not speak to Uther, but to Morgana. She is ten years Morgana’s senior and there is no great affection between them, though there is the ties of kinship.

“How do you plead to these charges?” Uther asks her. His voice is like iron, resounding through the room as the council finishes laying out the evidence. His hand shakes were it rests on the arm of his throne.

Morgause laughs at that, head thrown back briefly before she turns her gaze on Uther. “You dare to ask me that?” her voice is full of disdain. “Let me ask you then and see what you say. You cripple this kingdom as you cling to the traditions of the past. You hide behind your illegitimate spawn and make alliances with everyone to keep the peace. It is time for change in Albion, for new ways to rise up. Why else has a warlock appeared now?” she yells out and Merlin shrinks back, hoping that no one is looking his way.

People stir restlessly and start to murmur. Some probably agree with Morgause’s words but the impassive faces of Uther, Morgana and the lords and ladies of the council keep them from saying anything. Uther glares at Morgause.

“Then you plead guilty,” Uther de la Pendragon says softly. “What part did your husband play in it? Your son and daughter?”

“They knew nothing. This was all my doing,” Morgause says.

“We shall see.” Uther looks to the council. “How will you sentence her?”

Slowly, one by one, they hold out their hands, thumbs extended, and turn them down: Death. Morgana is the last to give her vote. Her eyes are hard as they stare out at her half-sister who would have killed her to get the Camelot throne. Her hand points down. “Death,” she says evenly.

“So be it,” Uther says aloud. “Morgause le Fey de la Escetia, you have three days to name the manner of death.” He motions to the Palace Guard to escort her out of the room. She offers no struggle and leaves with her head held high.

Cenred de la Escetia is called in next.

The king of Escetia looks similar to his kinsmen Uriens. They both have the dark hair and thin blade of a nose that marks the Escetian line. This is Merlin’s first time seeing the King and he looks tired. Cenred holds up his empty shackled hands, drawing Uther’s gaze. “We Escetians have always been known for our pride as well as our passions. I have sinned against you, in pride and love.”

“Do you admit to helping Morgause in her plans to seize the throne of Camelot?” Uther asks.

“I say I loved her too well.” Cenred’s gaze never wavers from Uther’s face. “I loved her who shares blood with your own heir. I knew, but I did not stop her when she sent orders to the admiral of my fleet, nor the Captain of my Guard. I knew.”

Again just as slowly, the hands came out and turn downward. Morgana is again the last to vote, her gaze thoughtful as she stares at Cenred. “Let him be banished,” she says coolly, turning to look at her father and the rest of the council.

“What say you?” Uther asks the council. None speak, but all nod and hold out their hands, palms facing outward. “Cenred de la Escetia, for your crimes against Camelot and Albion, you are banished from Albion and you title as king forfeit. You have three days to leave this land and should you ever return a bounty of ten thousand gold pieces shall be placed on your head. Do you accept these terms?”

Cenred turned to look at Uther, “You jest.”

Uther draws himself up, eyes hard. “I do not jest!” His voice echoes through the room. “Do you accept?”

“I accept,” he says subdued. Cenred’s head jerks up, “Uther, my daughter knew nothing! She is innocent in this matter.”

“We shall see,” Uther says again as Cenred is escorted from the room. “Be gone from this land.”

The lords and ladies whisper up at the table. They have planned to call Dillon next, but they change their minds, calling instead Dalia de la Escetia, Dillon’s sister, into the room.

Few could tell that she is Prince Dillon’s half-sister. She is Morgause’s true child and she looks more like her mother than her father. Her blonde curls are cut short and she carries herself much like her mother, the thin Escetian nose held proudly in the air.

Within several minutes of questioning, it is obvious that she had known as much as her father and had done nothing. The vote is the same: banishment. Father and daughter will survive, but not on Albion soil.

Last to come forth is Prince Dillon de la Escetia.

Like Morgause, he comes into the room in chains, letting them shake with each step. He holds his head up high, glaring at those in the room.

“Prince Dillon de la Escetia, you stand accused of high treason. How do you plead?”

“I am innocent,” Dillon shouts.

Uther looks off to the side and Valiant, Duc d’Alene walks out from a side chamber. His face is stiff as a mask as he comes to stand before Dillon. He gives his testimony to the council. His story is the same as what Uriens had told them. D’Alene withdraws and Nimueh steps forward.

She is surrounded by her kinsmen and kinswoman, all bearing the stamp of House l’Isle: blue-black hair, sapphire eyes, all wearing the crimson and black of their house. Merlin can feel their magic from the other side of the room, his own magic reacting and he is grateful when Freya wraps an arm around his waist, grounding him to the here and now.

Although it must be hard, Nimueh pulls off, somehow, a semblance of modesty, giving her testimony in a subdued voice. She says that Dillon showed her the letters in boast.

It is enough and the council hold out their hands again, thumbs down.

Death.

Morgana is again last, eyes hard as she stared at Dillon, “Tell me cousin, would you have wed me off to the highest bidder or just killed me outright?”

Prince Dillon gives no answer and it is enough. Morgana holds out her hand and points her thumb down.

“So be it,” Uther intones. “Prince Dillon de la Escetia, you are sentenced to death. You have three days to pick the manner of your choosing.” The prince is not as graceful as Morgause, stumbling from the room, disbelief evident on his face.

Uriens’ trial goes without a hitch. There is no evidence and with Kilgharrah’s testimony to back him up, he is absolved of all charges and his titles kept. Merlin watches Morgana and her eyes never leave Kilgharrah as he speaks, something hidden in her gaze.

~*~

The executions are held in private.

Many believed that Morgause would have a public execution, just to prove her point, but in the end her pride wins out. She takes a swift-acting poison, falling into a gentle sleep to never wake again. Prince Dillon is ever the soldier, even in death. When he learns of his mother’s choice in death, he calls for his sword. His shackles are removed and the Captain of the Guard is called in to be his second. His aim is true and pierces straight to the heart.

The city and even the five kingdoms fall into a subdued atmosphere, as if mourning the deaths. With no heirs left in Albion, the Escetian throne is passed to a cousin, not Uriens who refuses. Merlin wonders how this will change the course of history and fate.

Even Gwaine is sucked in by the somber atmosphere, his usually flippant demeanor subdued. He had made a large amount of money on a bet for the manner of death, but ever the superstitious soul, refused to spend it.

“It is cursed money,” Gwaine says and spits.

“So what will you do with it, give it away?” Merlin asks as they walk along the road towards Gwaine’s stable. He has built it up over the years until it is now well-known place with a large clientele from all over Camelot.

“And pass it on, are you nuts?” He shoulders Merlin with a small grin. “No, I’ll use it to make an offering to the Balance and the Old Religion. Perhaps it will do them good in their next life. Let’s see if there are any horses to spare.”

The boy tending the stables is quick to jump up and get them their mounts. They didn’t wait long before the two mounts are brought out, saddled and ready for them to ride. It takes Merlin a moment to scramble up the horse and into the saddle but once seated, he follows Gwaine out of the stable and out onto the road proper.

Gwaine sets a slow pace, keeping an eye on Merlin who’d never ridden a horse until this moment. It takes most of his concentration to stay on the horse’s back, but he still hears the third set of hoof beats behind them, Will no doubt trying to keep up with them.

The streets are empty as they make their way through, only a few groups out here and there, talking no doubt about the executions. Many wear the black of mourning, though they turn away as Merlin and Gwaine draw near.

“Do you grieve for him?” Gwaine asks.

Merlin can’t answer right away, trying to stay on his horse as they go around a stopped cart. Finally, he looks up. “Prince Dillon?” Merlin remembers the arrogant soldier and noble, the man who had held him down, pressed against the table, the drunk and joyful man from nine years before at the Winter Masquerade. He remembers Nimueh presenting him to Dillon, the last gift he would ever receive: the gift of death. “I do.”

“I’m sorry,” Gwaine says softly.

Merlin shook his head. “It’s all right. Let’s go to the temple.” They ride for some time in silence, the trees rising up and swallowing them in their growing silence. Around them, the plants breath life and natural magic and Merlin basks in its glow, soaking up the very thing that defines him.

They are silent as they ride into the clearing. The last time Merlin had been here was when he had dedicated himself. It feels right to come back here, to make an offering. The hidden stairway is just as narrow as he remembers it and Gwaine goes first, their steps loud in the silence and gloom.

Merlin isn’t surprised to see a priest waiting for them as they emerge onto the flat top. The sky above is clear, just an endless blue. Merlin breaths in and feels peace envelope him like a blanket. They split the coin, each taking a turn at the altar.

Gwaine places the offering and kneels, ringing the bell once in a sharp peal. Standing with a soft groan, he steps aside for Merlin to come forward, the priest coming forward to bless Gwaine. Merlin places the coins into the depression on top of Gwaine’s. Kneeling, he reaches out and rings the bell, the sound seeming to vibrate up his arm and into his chest.

Not sure what to say or think, he lets his magic loose, free to weave amongst the natural magic all around him. For a drawn out moment, he feels connected with everything around him. His breathe is the breathe of the world.

Just as suddenly, the feeling is gone and he feels cut off. Blinking his eyes open, he notices the change in the light. Standing with a groan, his knees had gone stiff, he stands. The priest is right behind him, face full of compassion. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks, brushing a slick finger over Merlin’s brow, leaving a line of lavender oil.

“I…yes,” Merlin admits.

“Then there is no more that needs to be done. May the Balance always watch over you, brother,” he says, pressing a small kiss to Merlin’s forehead before stepping back. Merlin walks over to Gwaine who is seated off to the side.

“How long was I knelt there?” he asks as they descend the stairs.

“About an hour. The priest said not to disturb you,” he says over his shoulder, voice echoing oddly in the stairwell.

Merlin touches Gwaine’s shoulder before he can mount. “Thank you,” he says with a smile.

“For what?”

“For giving me a way to find my balance again,” Merlin answers. Leaning forward, he presses a kiss to Gwaine’s cheek. “For being a friend.”

Gwaine tugs Merlin forward, wrapping his arms around the warlock. “You may have a large patronage, but I know few can claim to be friend to Kilgharrah’s warlock,” he mutters to Merlin, grinning. Snorting, Merlin pushes away from the man, climbing up onto his horse.

The ride back is just as silent, but it is lighter, as are their hearts, and so they make their way back to Camelot, laughing as they try to lose Will amongst the alleys of the lower city. Thus they came upon the l’Isle.

They ride down the main street in a group. Dressed in the crimson and black of their house, the group seems to blur and ripple as if a glamor has been placed over them. As if sensing their gaze, they stop as one, turning to look at Merlin and Gwaine.

Nimueh moves forward, guiding her mount with ease and grace. “Merlin nó Emrys,” she says with her usual smirk. “Well met. Will you come with us to mourn the loss of a fine man?” Merlin can taste the irony of her words, this woman who alone condemned Prince Dillon before his peers.

Merlin is about to answer but Gwaine speaks up before he can, “He is with me.”

As one they throw back their heads and laugh. Although Merlin does not know their faces, he can name them: Melias, Aglain, Edwin, Myror, Tauren, all with the spark of wild magic, but none so bright as hers which flares like a torch in the darkness.

“So you are his little friend,” Nimueh says, drawing out the little. “They say you are wise, for one so young. Come tell me, what advice would you give me?”

Gwaine stiffens at her words, eyes glaring at her. “My advice is this: that which yields is not always weak. Choose your victories wisely.”

Merlin has never doubted how dangerous Nimueh is. But in this moment, his doubt lessens substantially as she alone remains silent amongst her kin as they laugh. “Words indeed to be taken seriously, boy. I shall not have a debt though. Tauren, pay the boy so we may be on our way.”

Tauren steps forward, tossing a silver piece through the air that Gwaine catches with a lazy grin and a toss of his hair. Nimueh looks back at Merlin briefly. “You find friends in the strangest of places. As for Prince Dillon, you grieve for him in your way, and I will grieve in mine.” With that, she spurs her mount forward, the rest following with a whoop.

“That is Nimueh, if I am not mistaken?” Merlin nods, unable to answer. “Be wary of her Merlin. She may only be interested in Kilgharrah’s games, but you are one of his pieces and she will cut you down just like any other pawn.”

Merlin stiffens, glaring at Gwaine. “I am no one’s pawn except my own. And if you are implying that I would follow her, then know that I wouldn’t—,” Merlin says hauntingly.

“Nor will you,” a third voice says behind them. Merlin jerks around, almost falling off of his horse before straightening himself to see Will standing behind them, no longer on a mount. “I’m sure you would never betray Lord Emrys’ trust so, Merlin?”

“I thought you were on a horse?” Merlin asks, sidestepping his question.

Will snorts, but let’s himself be led off topic. “The way you two ride, it is almost too easy to follow you on foot. Though you have a decent seat on you when you’re not paying attention,” he says, pointing at Gwaine. “Kilgharrah should have taught you. Now if you’re done playing games, I will take you home and tell him this.”

They took the horses back to the stable, Merlin seething quietly at being forced to go home when he didn’t want to. Gwaine just shrugs and send Merlin an annoying grin. Will just rolls his eyes and calls the carriage around to take them back home.

Kilgharrah isn’t even home and Merlin sighs in annoyance. Sending a glare at Will who just shrugs it off, Merlin stalks off, restless with the night still young. Merlin prowls the house until he stumbles upon Freya in the study reading from a letter.

“What is it?” Merlin asks, letting his anger go.

Freya smoothes away the tatters to her emotions from her face, folding the parchment and sets it down. “An offer. It just came in, from Reynold Gunter.”

Merlin opens his mouth to say something and closes it with a snap, looking away. “You know,” Freya says. Merlin nods silently.

“I overheard you, that night. I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to eavesdrop. I’ve said nothing of it,” Merlin says in a rush.

“It matters not,” she says after a small pause. “What I want to know is why now? Does he have less to fear now that the Escetian family is in tatters? Or is it that he fears that his usefulness to the Bois family is up now that he has lost a major patron?”

“He has grown overconfident, Freya. The last time something this huge happened was the Queen and Prince’s death and he gained from it. He assumes he will gain from this as well. He feels entitled and men who feel entitled want to celebrate their entitlement. He seeks you out to show his power. Have a care with him.”

“I will, only this once and be done with it,” she says hotly, looking up at Merlin.

“Will you tell Kilgharrah?” Merlin asks, sitting down across from her.

“No, I will wait until it is done. It only says that Reynold has agreed to my request for a patron-gift. Let him think it is nothing more. If he knew what I felt, he would never let me do this.” She turns dark eyes on him, “Promise not to say anything?”

Merlin cannot hate her for this. It isn’t her fault that she has been offered her freedom while his collar only seems to grow tighter around his neck. “I promise.”

~*~

Merlin watches as Freya hides her distaste for the assignation from Kilgharrah with the skill of a true actor. Merlin remembers Gwaine’s words, “That which yields is not always weak.” If anyone is the embodiment of those words, it is Freya.

Always true to his word, Will informs Kilgharrah of the gap in his teaching. Kilgharrah agrees whole heartedly and a trip is planned for the days before Freya’s assignation for a trip. Alice and Gaius offer their country house which was given to Gaius by Uther upon his appointment as Royal Physician.

They spend four days in Ealdor, a small parcel of land near the border between Escetia and Camelot. It has a small wood and many fields. With a little village on its northern most point it is a little piece of paradise.

Something in Kilgharrah seems to ease out in the open air and sprawling landscapes, a part of him loosening ever so slightly so that a smile comes more easily to his lips.

The four days are spent with riding lessons taught by a twelve year old child who can ride circles around them with ease. He sits bareback on his mount as if he and the creature are one and Merlin feels envious at this. They eventually put their pride away after Merlin ends up falling headfirst into the village pigsty and soon come to enjoy the lessons.

On the last morning, they put their new acquired skills to the test, riding out with some of the locals on a hunt. Around them, the earth hums with life and the sound of the hounds brays as they follow the scent of some prey.

They catch up with them amongst the trees, the fox they have been chasing having disappeared underground into its den. One of the men gives a yell and half the hunting party rides off after him chasing something. Freya is amongst them, cheeks flushed and eyes shining brightly.

They make it back to the manor in time for lunch, though Kilgharrah seems to be his controlled self again. It is with sad smiles and waves that they take their leave, the open-top carriage pulling away from the manor and heading back to Camelot.

~*~

True to his word, Merlin says nothing of Freya’s approaching assignation with Reynold Gunter. The night of, Freya sends him one look before heading for the main door of the house. She is wearing the same dress she wore on her first assignation, her face calm and serene. There is a minor confusion about transport as Reynold has sent his own carriage, but it is soon resolved with Freya in Reynold’s carriage, Will as a silent presence with her.

Since they never have a contract on the same day, Merlin has the night to himself and sees her off. He hugs her tightly before she leaves and he can feel the slight tremble run through her body. “Be well,” he whispers to her before stepping back. Kilgharrah gives Freya his blessing and she steps into the carriage and it leaves, disappearing around a corner.

The night is winding down towards dawn when Freya returns. Merlin is sound asleep and for a second, he thinks it is Uriens again, yelling to draw them out of their beds. It still takes Merlin a minute to realize it is Freya who yells, voice echoing in the courtyard.

Scrambling out of bed, he throws on the closest tunic and pants before racing down the stairs barefoot, Kilgharrah and half the house already there. “What is it?” Kilgharrah roars above the clamoring crowd.

Freya is seated on the back of one of the carriage horses, legs gripping tightly, struggling with the cut reins, the horse rearing with fear, forcing Freya to hold on for dear life. “The couch was attacked,” she finally gets out. She jerks on the horse’s reins, forcing it to settle back on all fours as it tries to rear again. “By the river. Will is holding them off but he’s out numbered. He cut the traces.”

“Get my horse,” Kilgharrah shouts, turning to the nearest man. Stepping forward, he grabs the horse’s bridle, forcing it to stand still, sides heaving with exhaustion. Freya pulls a leg over the horse’s side and dismounts, grimacing. Merlin can see a dark spot blooming on her dress.

“Are you…?” Kilgharrah starts to ask, reaching out a hand to her.

Merlin jumps when Freya slaps his hand away, face etched with fury. “This wouldn’t have happened if you had taught me battle magic!” she snaps.

The man returns with Kilgharrah’s horse. “Where?” he asks coldly.

“Near the bridge.”

Without another word, Kilgharrah mounts the horse. Wheeling it around, he rides out, the horse’s shoes sending up sparks in its wake. With something that sounds between a laugh and a sob, Freya crumples to the ground, Merlin barely catching her and slowing her descent. A purse at her side slips off and falls to the ground, spilling gleaming golden coins. “My Mearcung, Merlin.” She gasps out, “it will cost Will his life.”

“Shh, Freya,” Merlin says, running a comforting hand over her shoulder. She had lost her cloak somewhere and is shivering in the cold. His hand lands on something wet and he looks down at the dark patch that is growing on her dress. Realizing it is not the temperature she is shivering from, he presses down on the wound, feeling blood seep between his finger, hot and slick. “Someone get a physician. Garen, Hal, send for Gaius or Alice! Now!”

The time seems to drag by excruciatingly slow as Merlin waits, holding Freya, hand pressed against her side. Merlin spends it whispering fervent prayers to the Balance, asking it to keep her and Will alive. He curses every petty feeling he felt toward his sister and Will.

Gaius and Alice arrive quickly and quietly. “Why is she on the cold ground? Do you want her to die of chill if she doesn’t die of the wound? You and you, help me get her inside,” Gaius says with authority, directing the two men sent for him to carry Freya.

Merlin lets her go with reluctance, fingers glued together with her blood. She looks at him silently, thanking him without words. Merlin silently gathers the coins up and follows them into the house. Gaius already has her on a couch, cutting through the dress with steady hands.

Alice drapes a cloth over her chest, allowing her some modesty as she shoos the two men out. The wound is long and deep, still seeping blood, but it won’t kill her. Pulling out a needle and thread from his kit, Gaius settles on a stool in front of her while Alice get the fire going. “You have lost much blood, but it shouldn’t kill you, not if I have anything to say about it.”

The room is silent for some time as Gaius sews; only broken by Freya’s hisses and quiet groans of pain. Finished, he asks for strong spirits, washing the wound with the burning liquid. He bandages it quickly as Alice hands Merlin a container of salve. “I’m sure you know how to use this,” Gaius says, looking at the warlock.

“You lead a hard life, warlock. I hope whatever is it you are after is worth it,” Gaius says, even as Freya fumbles for one of the coins in her purse to hand to the physician to pay him for his services. Gaius and Alice both stand, intending to leave but before they can reach the door, it opens.

Kilgharrah walks in with a dreadful look on his face, Will cradled in his arms, limp. Gaius checks for a pulse briefly, but shakes his head, saddened, “I’m sorry, but it is too late for him.”

“I know,” Kilgharrah gets out hoarsely. “Thank you.”

Shaking his head, Gaius and Alice leave, the woman sending one quick gaze at them before following her husband. Kilgharrah lays Will on the floor, hands crossed over his torso in respect for the man. “You should have told me,” he says angrily, eyes flashing brightly as he stares at Freya.

“If I had told you, you would have never let me make the bargain in the first place,” Freya says defensively. A tear escapes to slide down a pale cheek, “I never meant for anyone else to pay the price.”

Kilgharrah sinks to his knees over the felled man, hands balled into fists, chest heaving with each breath. “Who was it then?” Kilgharrah asks, finally, looking up at her.

“Maria Tinatgel de la Bois…and Agravaine de la Bois,” she whispers the names out to him, “Queen Ygraine’s brother.”

Kilgharrah closes his eyes, looking wearier than he has ever looked, the lines on his face seeming to deepen with the deep breath he lets out. “Thank you,” he whispers, a shudder wracking his body. “Thank you.”

~*~


	4. Part 4

**Part 4**   


Freya takes a long time to heal from the wound. It seems to be more the emotional blow than the actual physical wound that has her abed for days. She hadn’t thought beyond Reynold’s lust and the bedchamber. She hadn’t seemed to realize Will’s secondary role to Kilgharrah, nor had she reckoned that Reynold would have the couch attacked nor Will’s role in defending her. She couldn’t forgiver herself for her role in Will’s death.

Kilgharrah, out of it with guilt and grief, tries to tend her, but he is the last person Freya wants to tend her. She had done it for love of Kilgharrah, but to indulge in his care hurts too much at the moment. Merlin tends her instead and acts as a go between for them. Slowly, he pries the story of that night from Kilgharrah.

He had arrived to see Will cornered and fighting four men while the driver had fled in fear. Kilgharrah doesn’t go into detail about his own part, saying only that he took down three of the four, the last man fleeing. Merlin has seen him fight before and knows that despite everything, Kilgharrah is still a soldier, a veteran of the Battle of Highpass.

Kilgharrah thought he had arrived in time, but he took in all of Will’s wounds, a dagger protruding from his side, stuck through the ribs into his lung. Will had taken two steps and had seemed to crumple to the cobblestones. Cursing, Kilgharrah had run to the man.

Will had known, had felt the carriage slow to a stop by the river, and had heard the approach of men, the jingle of metal on metal. He had shoved Freya out ahead of him, protecting her from the first attacker, slicing through the traces to pull the horse free. Freya had gotten her wound during this short pause, but Will just boosted her onto the horse and smacked it on the rump to get it moving, all the while fending off attacks.

He had told this to Kilgharrah before he died, though Freya filled in some of the gaps. Will had told him they were Reynold’s men, telling him that the driver had known what was about to happen. They had stayed there on the street the whole time Will spoke, hands on the dagger in Will’s chest. Finally, his breaths had grown short, hand falling away, his last words falling from his lips, “Draw out the dagger, my lord and let me go. The debt between us is settled.”

He died quickly and quietly after that, blood filling his lung and chocking out what little breath he had left. Kilgharrah wept, that much Merlin knew, though the man never said. He had found the driver cowering some distance away. “Tell your master, he will answer to me before the King’s justice or on the dueling field, but he will answer to me!” The man had only nodded and Kilgharrah had left, gathering up Will in his arms and laying him over the saddle to bring him home.

The household is on edge for days afterwards, mostly due to Freya and Kilgharrah’s moods. Merlin and the servants tend to Freya as best they can. Kilgharrah sent for some funeral men to come during this time to prepare Will. A pyre is to be held for him, the ultimate honor. His ashes will be returned to his family, any taint to his name now gone. Kilgharrah disappears on the second day only to return short-tempered and crackling with pent up magic and rage.

“Reynold?” Merlin asks.

Gone,” Kilgharrah says, fist slamming onto the table with a loud thump. “He and half his household packed up and left for Tintagel.”

Although Kilgharrah still had some influence, his web was mostly information and while that went to all corners of Albion, his reach did not. Reynold is safe in Tintagel. Kilgharrah continues to paces the study, clenched fist held behind his back.

“No more assignations, not until Reynold is brought to justice. I will not risk either of you,” he says, turning burning amber eyes onto Merlin.

“You mean you don’t know?” Merlin asks.

“Know what?” Kilgharrah asks, coming to a stop.

“Reynold’s patron gift, it paid the rest of Freya’s Mearcung. It was the other half of her price,” he says softly, watching Kilgharrah shift restlessly.

“Why? Why would she do this?” he asks.

“For you,” Merlin says, realizing how blind Kilgharrah really has been this whole time.

Kilgharrah settles into the chair behind him, rubbing at his brow. “I never asked her to take such a risk. Either of you and she knows that.”

“We both know this, which is exactly why she didn’t tell you and had me swear silence. Freya was not meant for this kind of homage to the balance, not like I am. She did it though, to pay a debt she owed to you.”

Merlin can hear the small hiss of breath as Kilgharrah registers Merlin’s words, similar to Will’s. “There has never been a debt between us. My duty lay elsewhere with her.”

“In the promise you made to Queen Ygraine de la Pendragon?”

“She was my charge,” he says in a harsh whisper. His shoulders sag. “Oh, young warlock, I have trained you too well, it seems. Freya should have known there is no debt between us.”

“Then perhaps she was right and you should have trained her in battle magic instead of sex magic,” Merlin says bluntly, ignoring the way his cruel words cause Kilgharrah to flinch ever so slightly. He can still remember the night still fresh in his mind: Freya in his arms, her blood seeping out hot and slick between his fingers, the cold flag stones beneath his knees. It is not something he will forget or forgive anytime soon.

“Perhaps, you are right,” he says not even defending himself against Merlin’s words.

Sighing, Merlin leans forward. “Freya made her choice, my lord. Do not demean it because you do not like what she chose. She is grieving for her part in Will’s death. Let her have her space, she will come around soon.”

“You have the right of it, young warlock,” Kilgharrah says softly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Freya’s Mearcung is made. And you?”

“I have pledged myself to the balance,” he says gently. “You cannot absolve me of my pledge any more than you could Freya.”

Kilgharrah shakes his head to clear it. “No, I won’t, but my word stands. No more assignations until Reynold is brought to justice.” Standing, he starts to make his way to his desk, dismissing Merlin. Merlin clears his throat. “Yes?” he asks.

“There is the delegate who has recently returned from the mainland,” Merlin says. “The one who developed…exotic tastes…in his posting? He is reporting to Uther in ten days and I have been contracted for him.”

“Ah yes, Duc L’Ector’s little lordling, Lucan Maris I believe,” he says leaning against the table. “I’d forgotten about him. D’Cote must have recommended you.” Sighing, he pushes off of the table. “We will wait and see. If we need to, we can claim a tragedy in the household. We shall see.”

Merlin bows his head in acquiescence, not wanting to push his master any further. Feeling Kilgharrah’s gaze on him, Merlin glances up. “Do not do this for my sake, Merlin. If you do this only for an oath, then we will talk with the priests and priestess of the Old Religion to absolve you. Surely the Balance will not disfavor you for that.”

Merlin stares silently at Kilgharrah and can feel his magic stirring inside. He knows his eyes are glowing gold from the slight inhale of Kilgharrah’s breath. An image comes forth, a golden scale held precariously on a woman’s hand. Thinking of Freya and Will, Merlin shakes his head. “No, my lord. You yourself named me for what I am, a tool of the Balance. This is how I serve it, whether it be in your name or its.”

Sighing, Kilgharrah nods. “So be it, but you must wait for my word,” he says softly. He dismisses Merlin then, reaching forward to pull a piece of parchment towards him.

~*~

There is no funeral service. The only family Will has left is his mother and she lives in Escetia, too far away to make it in time. It also seems cruel to hold it with Freya unable to attend. Kilgharrah pays for everything, no expense spared. His ashes are sent to his mother to be buried on their family’s land.

A week goes by, and Freya’s wound slowly heals. With no true skill for healing magic, Merlin is forced to do things by hand. He checks her wound daily, soaking the bandages off and working as quickly as possible to keep her feeling too much pain. There will be a scar, but, she will live.

Freya never complains, even when Merlin fumbles and pulls a bandage too hard. She even laughs a little when Merlin sniffs at the wound, checking for infection.

“Some physician you’d make,” she says playfully as she leans against a mound of pillows. The laugh pulls on her stiches and she grimaces in pain.

“Stop that,” Merlin admonishes her as he picks up a pot of salve to slather on the wound. It looks horrid now that it has scabbed over, a dark jagged line of red against her pale skin. “If you want better, ask Kilgharrah.” Freya stiffens and then shakes her head mulishly. Glancing at her, Merlin sighs and goes back to what he is doing.

“Will made his own choices too,” Merlin reminds her. He presses a fresh wad of cloth to the wound to cover it up before wrapping a bandage around her torso. “He knew the risks, after all he was the one hired to kill Kilgharrah and it was Kilgharrah who forgave and took him in. You acting like this just diminish the sacrifice he made for you.”

“It still does not excuse my mistake,” she says softly, looking away from Merlin, her eyes wet.

“Because the great Freya does not make mistakes like us lesser mortals. You think you are berating yourself over your failure. Just think of what Kilgharrah is doing to himself for not realizing your dislike of homage through sex magic. I think you should talk to him,” Merlin says softly, laying a gentle hand on her arm.

For a second, it looks like she is about to give in and then her face hardens as she shrugs off his hand. Unrelenting, Merlin stands and continues around the room, cleaning up what needs to be cleaned up and such.

“Why do you think Kilgharrah is so intent on finding out Ygraine de la Pendragon’s killer?” Merlin asks after some time in silence.

“I don’t know. I do know that Agravaine has always been ambitious and is angry that he is second and will never gain a throne while both his sister and brother have. And with his father out of the way and with his brother having no heirs, maybe he thought taking his sister out meant that he didn’t need to worry about her sons becoming competition for his bid for the Bois throne,” she says thoughtfully.

“Perhaps Kilgharrah loved Ygraine?” Merlin thinks aloud.

“You think? He has always been touchy around her name. It would explain a lot,” she says. “You’re mad to think that,” she says, biting her lip.

“Well, if you want to find out, you’ll just have to ask him, now won’t you,” Merlin says with a small smile at her. “Besides, you have a far better chance of getting it out of him than me.”

They have been trained by a master to this, to maneuver with words to reach a goal. Freya blinks up at him and laughs before gasping as her stiches pull again but she can’t stop chuckling. “Oh, I can see why they ask for you again and again. If I had half you gift, mayhap none of this would have happened.”

“I would that you did, or at least took half the pleasure in it that I do,” Merlin says softly, laying a hand on her arm again. This time she doesn’t shrug it off. “Talk to him,” Merlin says gently, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

~*~

Healing takes time, but Merlin and Kilgharrah could not put off Lucan Maris any longer, though the day before the day of, Merlin thinks Kilgharrah is going to cancel. Finally though, the day arrives and Kilgharrah gives the go ahead, but with a long speech about putting his safety over that of getting information. Merlin nods and accepts the hired guard Kilgharrah has hired without a single protest.

Merlin ignores the man the whole ride there, though he misses Will’s easy silence. Lord Lucan Maris is in the castle itself. A page waits for them in the front courtyard and leads the way through the many corridors to where Maris is waiting in his own rooms.

Lucan Maris is Albion through and through, but he has grown plump on the hospitality of the Emperor of Rome. He gestures them in graciously, sending Merlin’s guard off with a servant to be seen to in the kitchens until Merlin is finished.

“Merlin nó Emrys, I would appreciate if you would put these on.” He hands Merlin a stack of clothing. The main piece is a long tunic of off white that gathers at both shoulders with bronze ornaments. A braided leather belt cinches the loose cloth around his waist. Simple leather arm bands, thin strip of leather with a clasp for a collar and sandals are the last and Merlin looks at himself in the mirror, seeing a Roman slave staring back.

Smiling, Merlin turns back around, sinking into the persona of his character, casting his eyes down in a demure stance. Maris had disappeared while Merlin changed, but he soon reemerged, dressed in the flowing toga of a senator, the cloth cinching at the waist with a belt and gathering on one shoulder.

He herds Merlin into the bed chamber, the whole room decorated in the Roman fashion. Kneeling on a purposefully placed cushion beside a low backed couch, Merlin attends Maris, waiting for his first move. Merlin spends part of the time just serving the man or kneeling quietly beside him as he reads through a scroll.

But soon though, he sets it aside, turning to look at Merlin. Merlin had prepared himself in advance and is glad for the preparation for Maris takes him with two years’ pent up vigor. While it is not hard to find bed companions in Rome, many are wary around foreigners and as an ambassador of Camelot, he had had to remain chaste to keep from allowing a weakness in the bloodthirsty empire.

Soon after, they lie together amidst a mound of cushions and sheets, cloths gone. “What was it like, on the mainland?” Merlin asks innocently, pressed along Maris’s side, running absentminded fingers in random patterns over his chest.

“It is a harsh place ruled completely by politics and the Emperor rules with an iron fist. I never understood Listinoise’s poem until poem about longing for home until now. She was but a day’s sail away from home and felt it like a knife in the heart. I was so far away and it felt like I would never return,” Maris says gruffly, laying his hand on Merlin’s and squeezing it tightly.

It is easier than Merlin reckoned to put his and Kilgharrah’s plan into action. “Does that mean Duc L’Ector misses Albion as much as you did? I know he has been on the mainland for some time gathering alliances.”

“Oh, the Duc, he is a wanderer at heart and would prosper anywhere. The Emperor himself even gave him some lands and men-at-arms for deeds rendered.” Maris stops for a second. “But word has reached him of the fall of House Escetia. He has ties to them, you know, through marriage on his mother’s side. I think it has reminded him of his cousin Ygraine, how he loved that girl. I think he has realized how much he misses Albion. Once his daughter has been wed, he wishes to relinquish his position and return. That is why I am here, to petition Uther for his return.”

Merlin looks up at him. “The Duc’s daughter is to be wed?”

Maris nods. “Indeed, to the son of one of the Emperor’s wives.” Reaching down, he pulls Merlin up his body. “Do what you did last time, but make it last longer.” Merlin does in full, leaving a smile on Maris’s face.

“Oh, Merlin, you are indeed a splendid gift. If…if Duc L’Ector’s request is granted and I come back, may I contract you again?”

“My lord Maris, I have no say in my patrons. It is my lord Kilgharrah who picks from them from all the great houses who I am to go to. Was it one such who recommended me?” Merlin asks, helping the man into his robe.

“It was…someone highly placed in the court. I have gold aplenty and will surely be landed what with all that the Duc and I have accomplished in relations with the Emperor.”

Merlin holds his tongue on his thoughts about the Duc’s daughter’s marriage and says instead, “Indeed. But there is something for which my lord Kilgharrah would be most appreciative.”

“What?” he asks, gripping Merlin’s arm. “If it is in my power I will do it.”

“There is an…old quarrel…between my lord and the Duc,” Merlin says, looking solemnly at Maris. “It is not something to be easily overlooked, but my lord would wish it be known that he is willing to take steps towards bringing peace between the two houses.”

“The Emrys House is not a noble house,” Maris says and Merlin sees the shrewdness in his eyes that must have made him perfect for delegate for the mainland. “Kilgharrah…” he stops for a second. “Is your lord prepared to give his earnest word in this?”

“My lord is an honorable man. He would not ask of peace in jest,” Merlin defends.

Maris is silent for a few seconds. “I will mention it should such an occasion arise. You will see me again, then?”

“Yes my lord,” Merlin agrees easily. Grinning like a love-struck lad, he walks to the mantle above his fireplace where a coffer sits. Plunging his hands into it, he pulls out two handfuls of golden pieces bearing the profile of the Roman Emperor. Merlin holds out his tunic quickly as Maris spills them onto his lap.

“That should satisfy. Even should you forget your promise, this will leave you something to remember me by. I will leave an offering to the Balance in your name.”

Gathering his cupped tunic into one hand, Merlin stands and places a kiss on the man’s cheek. “You have paid homage three times this day, my lord. Surely the scales are tipped in your favor greatly now.” Maris blushes at Merlin’s words and calls the servants.

~*~

Kilgharrah dismisses Merlin guard once they are home. Merlin is glad to see him gone for the man just seemed to grate on his nerves, even if he spoke not a word. Maybe he should leave word with Gwaine to see if the man could find someone more suitable. With these thoughts in mind, he follows Kilgharrah out into the courtyard at his beckons.

Freya is there already, tucked under a blanket to ward against the autumn chill in the air. She has much improved, though she is still a bit pale. She smiles briefly at Merlin as he passes to take a seat.

“How fares Kay l’Ector?” Kilgharrah asks without preamble.

“The Duc is missing home and is minded to relinquish his position to return to Albion. He will leave in his stead one daughter, married to a son of one of the Emperor’s wives.”

“House L’Ector and the Empire allied? Morgause would be furious if she were alive. It’s no surprise that Kay is ready to come home. He got the alliance he went there for.” Kilgharrah lights his pipe and takes a drag from it.

“My lord, is this why you wish to make peace? To gain influence on the mainland?” Merlin asks.

“I did not know of this marriage until tonight,” Kilgharrah says. “It is not that.” His gaze turns thoughtful and distant. “The Duc and I have never been friends, but he stands to gain from my goals. It is time enough to put an end to this bad blood between us. Was Lord Maris agreeable to your suggestion?”

“He will speak to him, though he makes no promises. Still, I think today will be more than enough to motivate him and I made it clear enough where my loyalties lie. But I am not adverse to his gold.”

“Or his company?” Freya speaks up, a small smile on her face.

Merlin just shrugs. “He is easy to please. I have done more on some occasions and gotten less out of it. Besides, from this patron gift alone, my Mearcung will grow two more inches.”

Kilgharrah snorts out a puff of smoke. “You may keep your promise to him…but only once more, I think, unless he rises higher. I wish all your patrons are as harmless as him.”

“Anyone who is cornered is dangerous, my lord. I have learned that the hard way,” Freya says solemnly. “What do we do now?”

“Now? We wait and see how our hand plays out,” Kilgharrah says, blowing a smoke ring.

~*~

A few weeks ago by before official word of Tamara l’Ector’s marriage to the Emperor’s son reaches Camelot. Uther gives his blessing to the union and Duc L’Ector petition is granted, though Uther warns off Kay from gaining monopoly of the mainland. He sends a replacement ambassador with no ties to the Duc and who is loyal to Camelot.

Kilgharrah keeps his plans close to his chest and being forbidden assignations and even trips to see Gwen or Gwaine are denied. Merlin is forced to remain inside. He spends more time than he used to studying. He practices diligently at his crafts learned at the Court and here in Kilgharrah’s home.

Freya heals quickly in this time and though the air is still dark between her and Kilgharrah, the tension has broken. Will’s death is still fresh and will take time to heal, but for the moment, they are at ease. Soon after she is well enough to walk, Kilgharrah takes her to the village Alice took Merlin to those times before.

What happened between her and the Balance there, Merlin will never know, but she returns three days later. She looks better, some of the guilt that had been weighing her down is gone and it shows. Though Freya is in lockdown like Merlin, Kilgharrah does gift her with a fine chestnut palfrey, the horse a sweet and docile creature. It is customary to present a gift to one who has completed their Mearcung. Merlin hadn’t known that Kilgharrah knew of the practices of the Court.

Technically, her Mearcung wasn’t finished as her wound prevented it, but the money was there and Kilgharrah would not deny her that much after all she had done to get him the information he so desired. Merlin bored out of his mind by then, reminds Kilgharrah of his own filled coffer from Maris’s patron gift. Relenting, he hires a guard to escort Merlin to the tattooist shop where the next section of his Mearcung is inked into his back.

When Merlin returns, one of the servants is waiting for him. “Lord Emrys will see you in the study,” he says. Hoping that Kilgharrah is finally about to relent on his “no assignation” command Merlin hurries to the study, ignoring the tenderness in his back.

“You sent for me, my lord?” Merlin says once he shuts the door behind him.

“I did, sit,” he says and motions toward the chair across from him. “Before I say anything further, I must ask you once again: is it still your will to pursue this service, knowing the dangers I ask of you to walk willingly into?”

“You know it is,” Merlin says, hope budding in his chest.

Kilgharrah nods. “Very well,” he says, looking past Merlin for a second before continuing. “I am not minded to make the same mistake twice. Henceforth, you shall have a companion with you at all times you leave these ground. I have arranged for you to be warded by a knight of the Round Table Brotherhood.”

“You must be joking,” Merlin says, feeling the glimmer of hope for freedom dying away at Kilgharrah’s words.

Kilgharrah smirks, “I would never jest over the safety of you.”

“My lord…you would have me shadowed by some over-zealous, muscle-bound, idiot of a knight?” Merlin says in outrage, ignoring the guilty twine as he remembers the Gwen’s brother is a knight. “On an assignation?”

“Uther de la Pendragon and Morgana de la Pendragon are both in attendance by a knight at all times. You should be honored.” His smirk just keeps growing.

“Will was trained by the Knight Brothers and look what happened to him! Do you really think I would be any safer with another knight?” Merlin asks, unable to get past the shock of the thought of someone in that black tunic standing behind him as he flirted with a patron.

Kilgharrah just smirks again, looking past Merlin.

“If this man Will was expelled when he was fourteen,” a bored voice drawls out behind him, “than he had only just begun the training to become a knight.”

Jumping, Merlin glares at Kilgharrah and turns around quickly.

The man standing in the shadows behind Merlin bows to them in the traditional manner of the knights, one arm across his black tunic, the other resting on the hilt of his sword at his waist. Light from the window glints off of the chainmail peeking out from under his tunic and on the back of his leather gloves. He straightens and looks at Merlin.

“Merlin nó Emrys,” he speaks out formally, “I am Arthur du Bois of the Round Table Brotherhood. It is my privilege to attend.”

Arthur neither looks nor sounds like he means it, his jaw clenching around the words, mouth thinning into a thin white line.

It is a beautiful mouth.

Merlin can’t help but stare at Arthur du Bois. He has very noble features, the strong jaw, proudly arched nose, shining blond hair and glowing blue eyes under golden brows and lashes. His skin is an even tan that speaks of one who works outside often. At the moment, those eyes have barely concealed dislike in them.

“Arthur here tells me that what happened to Will and Freya would never have happened to someone with the true training of a knight. I have tested my blade against his and am satisfied with his skill.” A knight never draws his sword unless to kill, Merlin had heard it once, when he was a child. They are said to fight with their sword still sheathed.

Merlin glances at Arthur’s sword and sees the strip of leather locking his sword in place in its sheath. “He bested you, my lord with a still sheathed sword?”

Kilgharrah says nothing, nodding towards Arthur who bows again. “Lifwraþu, I protect and serve,” Arthur says simply.

Taking a seat so he can see both of them, Merlin leans back, ignoring the ache where the back of the chair rubs at his Mearcung. “He is certainly pretty enough, my lord. At least he won’t scare away my patrons. If you will, then so be it. Is there an offer to entertain?”

Merlin notices Arthur glaring at him from the corner of his eye, but doesn’t react. Kilgharrah smirks and Merlin knows he can see it. “There are many offers to choose from, but there is a matter that is of more importance to see to.”

Merlin nods. “In the name of the Balance, I—,”

“Enough,” Kilgharrah says, though his smirk doesn’t leave his face. “Merlin, you of all people should know not to mock those in service.” He turns to look at Arthur, “I have spoken with your captain and he has deemed this matter worthy of the Brotherhoods attention. Should you question his judgment, you are in question of heresy.”

Arthur nods his head curtly and bows again.

Merlin turns to look at Kilgharrah, “What is it?”

“The Duc L’Ector is due to return in a fortnight. I would like you to request of Lord Breunor d’Cote that he send word to the Duc of my desire to meet up with him.”

Merlin blinks for a second, processing his word, “But what about all that work done on Lucas Maris?”

“Because Kay will listen to D’Cote,” Kilgharrah answers. “Maris is only in a minor position and L’Ector would dismiss him out of hand. With his new alliance, he has grown much in power and I cannot have him dismiss this request. D’Cote is the one who got the Duc his appointment on the mainland. Kay will listen to him, thus I need you to convince Breunor d’Cote.”

“Then he will know,” Merlin says simply.

“Thus my reason for waiting until the Brotherhood’s answer. Do you think he will harm you?”

Merlin glances to the side at Arthur who has been listening the whole time. “Perhaps…not. D’Cote has known from the beginning I am part of your game, but doesn’t know which part.”

“Then go to him,” Kilgharrah says curtly. “Uther de la Pendragon ails and time grows short. Let this be done.”

“There is no assignation?” Merlin asks.

“It is better to surprise him. Do you think he will not let you in?”

Merlin remembers D’Cote, his gifts sent after he had hurt Merlin with the poker. “He will my lord, but what am I to say for bait?”

“Ask him to tell Duc L’Ector that I know who killed his cousin.”

~*~

They waste no time in leaving. The carriage is readied and soon Merlin and Arthur are on their way across the city to the castle itself. Merlin s dressed simply for once, though his cloak stands out no matter what he wears and people know him for what he is. Beside him, Arthur cuts a somber figure in his black tunic and dark grey breeches and boots. His sword hangs at his waist.

Unsure if Arthur has ever been in the castle, Merlin plows on, uncaring if Arthur gets caught up by the splendor. If he gets lost, Merlin will just have to find him later. Arthur though seems unfazed and sticks to Merlin like a shadow.

At D’Cote’s quarters, the servant blinks at the two of them standing in the doorway. “My lord Merlin nó Emrys,” the servant says erring on the safe side. Merlin has no title, just Kilgharrah’s name, but the servants do not know that, mostly due to Will. Merlin forces the lump from his throat as his thoughts lead back to Will. Now is not the time. “My lord D’Cote is not expecting you.”

“I know,” Merlin says, straightening with as much dignity. “Will you send word with my request asking if he might spare a moment of his time?”

“Of course, if you will wait here,” he says, letting them in the door and shutting it behind them. They did not wait long before the servant came back, D’Cote right behind him. “Merlin, what is it?” he asks, voice concerned.

Merlin quickly bows to the man, Arthur following on enough to nod his head. “Enough of your games, why have you come? Did Kilgharrah send you?” D’Cote asks.

“Yes, my lord, may I speak with you in private?” Merlin asks.

“Of course, this way,” he says and starts to lead Merlin away.

Arthur clears his throat loudly, “My lord, I have sworn an oath.”

Sending an assessing glance at Arthur he shrugs, “If you must knight.” He leads them down the hall to where his study is. It is a well-kept room, everything the neatness of a man who has need of organization.

Two men-at-arms follow them in, shutting the door behind them. As D’Cote takes a seat, Merlin wastes no time, falling to his knees gracefully to kneel in front of the man. “My lord Kilgharrah sends me to beg a boon.”

“Kilgharrah begs a boon? What is it he wants?” The man asks, leaning back in his seat, one leg crossed over the other.

“He desires a meeting with Duc Kay l’Ector. He asks that you act as go-between in this matter,” Merlin says.

D’Cote leans forward, hands braced on his knees as his eyes narrow. “How does…you!” he spits out. Merlin should have seen it coming. D’Cote is a soldier and a hunter, he has seen time and again his ability, but D’Cote’s speed still takes him by surprise.

D’Cote has Merlin in his grasp before he can blink, bent over his knee, knife pressing against the base of his throat. Merlin can feel it split the skin slightly, a bead of blood flowing across his skin to pool in the hollow of his throat.

“All this time, you have played me the fool, little warlock. Well there is no contract now and no word you can say to stop me from applying my own justice,” D’Cote hisses out.

“There is one,” Arthur says, bowing his bow at the worst moment, or so Merlin thinks, but as he rises, his sheathed blade springs forth from his belt in a blur. “Lifwraþu.”

From his strained position, Merlin can only see it out of his peripheral. The men-at-arms step forward to attack. Arthur moves like the wind and lightening, his sheathed sword flicking out like a snake’s strike to land solid blows that bring down the men before they can even draw their own blades.

The dagger at Merlin’s throat rises as D’Cote starts to stand, but Arthur bats it out of his hand before he can do much else. Finished, he returns his sword to his belt with a bow, “I protect and serve. Merlin nó Emrys was speaking.”

“Fine,” D’Cote say, releasing Merlin as he wrings his hand. The Men-at-arms are still picking themselves up. “Kilgharrah is serious if he has contracted a knight to you protection. What makes you so sure I serve Kay l’Ector?”

“You spoke it, my lord. The night you…took up the poker.” Merlin hears Arthur’s sharp intake of breath but ignores him. He cannot be distracted at the moment.

“You heard that?” D’Cote asks in awe.

“You have known since the beginning that I was Kilgharrah’s bait. Did you think you could play with magic and not be snared?” Merlin asks, glancing up from his kneeling position.

The room is silent, the tension mounting. Merlin hears Arthur shift, the leather of his gloves creaking as he grips the hilt of his sword harshly. Suddenly, D’Cote laughs and the tension drains from the air. “Snares indeed. I’ve known since I first saw you that I was in your trap. Though they are Kilgharrah’s own snares, not magic.”

“I have been taught many things by Kilgharrah, but I am what I was born to be,” Merlin says.

Grunting, he motions for Merlin to stand. “If you wish to petition me, you will do it seated in a chair, not as a heap upon the floor.” Merlin stands gracefully, trying to hide the fact that his knees are still shaking. “Now, what does Kilgharrah want with Kay and what makes him think that the Duc will listen?”

“What he wants, I cannot say for he keeps his thought close. What he offers is all I have.”

“And that is?” D’Cote asks.

“Kilgharrah knows who killed the Duc’s cousin,” Merlin says, playing his last card.

D’Cote is quiet for some time before he finally stirs. “Why does he not take this to Uther?”

“There is no proof,” Merlin admits.

“And why do you think Kay will believe it with no proof?”

“Because it is true,” Merlin says quickly, trying to convince this man. “I know it is true because it was gotten the same way I learned of your patron, Kay l’Ector.”

“By you?” he asks.

“By another,” Merlin says, not wanting to reveal Freya’s role in this.

“Ah, the female,” he says but Merlin says nothing. “They have been enemies for a long time, why would Kilgharrah…” D’Cote stops and sigh, drawing out Kilgharrah’s name a second time like a curse. “Very well. I will grant that old dragon this boon, but I make no promise. Though I’m sure the Duc will want to hear what Kilgharrah has to say. Tell your master I will speak to Kay.”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you,” Merlin says, bowing as he stood back up.

Merlin holds out a hand as Arthur shifts when D’Cote stands. The man comes forward to stand before Merlin. “You have much to answer for, warlock,” he says, running a finger underneath Merlin’s gold speckled blue eye.

“I know, my lord,” Merlin says, feeling the magic in him stirring. There is a balance that must be righted between him and D’Cote and one day he must face this man. Grinning evilly, he pats Merlin’s cheek sharply and steps back, ignoring Arthur’s glare.

“Tell Kilgharrah I will send word,” He says, taking his seat again. “Now get out of my sight.”

They obey quickly, Arthur gripping Merlin’s arm harshly and dragging him along. Once the door is shut, he turns to glare at Merlin, uncaring about them being in the middle of the corridor of the castle. “You call that homage to the balance?” he hisses out.

Yanking his arm out of Arthur’s grip, Merlin glares back. “No, I call that service to Kilgharrah who owns my Mearcung, and if you cannot stomach it, then I suggest you take it up with your captain. But until then, stop blabbering in the hall!” Merlin hisses and starts to storm off.

Arthur soon catches up and starts to pull away, ignoring the glare Merlin sends at his back. They walk in silence for a few minutes before someone calls out Merlin’s name. “Merlin!”

Merlin turns to see Nimueh de l’Isle at the intersection of another hall. Merlin pauses to speak with her and Arthur doesn’t stop, just keeps walking. “What brings you to the castle?” she asks as Merlin stops before her.

“My lady, you would need to speak with Kilgharrah and not me to find out.” Merlin says, mind still reeling from before. Even her magic is not enough to completely derail him from his thoughts.

“And I will, when I see him next.” She smirks at him and reaches out to finger his cloak. “Such a beautiful color. I am so glad Kilgharrah was able to find someone who is still able to create the dye. I have been meaning to visit, but I have been needed in Escetia recently, though I have heard of the tragedy in your household. Convey my regards to Freya, will you?”

“I will, my lady,” Merlin says while wondering just how she found out when only those in the household knew of Will’s death.

Footsteps sound behind Merlin and Arthur storms back into view, face the picture of arrogant impatience. He makes a curt bow to Nimueh once he stops behind Merlin. Nimueh arches a brow at Merlin, “The knight serves you?” Merlin can only shrug, unsure of what to say.

“I protect and serve,” Arthur supplies.

Nimueh’s laughter rings out, a true laugh and it bounces off of the walls. “Oh, Kilgharrah, you priceless man,” she gasps out.

Merlin can hear Arthur’s teeth grinding together and Merlin knows he needs to make a hasty retreat before Arthur explode or cracks a tooth. “My lady, I will inform Kilgharrah of your words,” Merlin says, drawing her attention away from Arthur.

It works and she turns back to Merlin, still smiling. “I hope to see you soon, Merlin,” she says softly. Merlin nods and bows as she walks away.

“Who was that?” Arthur asks once they finally reach the main courtyard and their carriage.

Merlin shifts slightly in his seat in the carriage. “That was Lady Nimueh de l’Isle, probably the most dangerous sorceress you will ever meet,” Merlin says softly.

“The one who testified against the Escetian throne?” he asks.

“The very one,” Merlin says.

~*~

Kilgharrah is waiting when they return, pacing the length of his study, puffing furiously on his pipe. As they enter, he turns sharply and asks, “Well, will he do it?”

Before Merlin can answer, Arthur steps forward, sweeping down to kneel in front of Kilgharrah. His sword, still sheathed, rests on his upwards raised palms. “My lord, I have failed in my duties and offer up my sword,” he says solemnly, shoulders tight.

“What are you talking about, foolish boy?” Kilgharrah asks, staring down at the knight.

“Show him,” Arthur says, glancing back at Merlin from the corner of his eye.

Merlin blinks, reaching up a hand to finger at his throat. “This? This is nothing coming from D’Cote. Besides, you kept him from doing worse.”

“D’Cote drew a blade on you?” Kilgharrah asks.

“Yes, when I explained my part in your game, but Arthur—,”

“He drew blood,” Arthur buts in. “Not only that, in my anger, I let him out of my sight.”

“Nimueh,” is all Merlin says in explanation. “She sends her regards,” she informs Freya and Kilgharrah. “Arthur is being melodramatic. He served me well and was just taken by surprise.”

“Well lad, it seems you are well defended yourself. If Merlin says you did your duty, than I am satisfied. That you kept a calm head under such conditions and against D’Cote is no mean feat. I am not displeased. Now, what about L’Ector?” he asks, turning away from Arthur’s knelt form to look at Merlin.

“I was able to convince D’Cote enough. He will deliver your message,” Merlin says, removing his cloak and settling into a chair.

“Good,” Kilgharrah says, some of the tension in him leaving. Merlin wonders what is so important that Kilgharrah avenge the queen’s death even after so many years. “You are dismissed.”

“What, but I thought that—,” Merlin starts.

“No, not until I meet with L’Ector. Things have been shaken up like a hornets nest and until they settle, I will not risk you.”

Merlin sighs, “Very well.”

~*~

Merlin bemoans his confinement, sending glares at Arthur and Freya who seem to have struck up a friendship. Arthur spends his mornings practicing with his sword. Merlin spends much of his time watching from a shadowed corner, watching the beauty and grace of Arthur moving through each form fluidly.

Merlin isn’t expecting it when one day, Arthur chucks a wooden stick at him. Merlin barely catches it before it hits his head. He blinks in confusion, wondering when Arthur snuck up on him. “You might as well make yourself useful and help me with my exercises. Who knows, maybe you’ll learn something,” Arthur says and smirks.

Ten minutes later and Merlin is lying on the ground, winded with Freya’s laughter ringing in his ears and Kilgharrah standing off to the side, smirking. Pushing himself up with a huff, he chucks the sword at Arthur and walks back over to where Kilgharrah is standing. “Not bad for a first time, young warlock,” he says with a smirk.

“Oh, hush,” Merlin gripes. He turns to see Arthur showing Freya the proper way to hold the sword. Merlin snorts, “She would scandalize the Brotherhood if they saw her learning sword craft.”

“Indeed she would, but it is too late to be of any use now. She is too old to begin the training, even if she was a boy,” Kilgharrah says with a small smile.

“She wouldn’t want to though. After all, she’s in love with you,” Merlin says nonchalantly, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

“With <i>me</i>?” Kilgharrah asks, looking for once like he was truly startled. “Why would she be in love with me?”

Merlin glances up at him from under his lashes as he listened to Freya laugh. “Because you took her in when others cast her out. If you truly think she would not love you, than you are not the man I thought you to be.”

With a slight bow of his head, Merlin leaves Kilgharrah to his thoughts, his brows drawn in concentration, amber eyes trained on Freya. <i>‘I hope you thank me for this, Freya,’</i> Merlin thinks with a sad smile. He can feel his magic stirring restlessly under his skin and wants to get out. Slipping out while everyone is occupied in the back, he is out the door and in a carriage before anyone can notice his absence.

Gwaine isn’t home, and ignoring his mother’s raised brow, Merlin finds him quickly, tucked away in their usual tavern. Merlin enters it to a cacophony of noise. Someone is playing a fiddle and a chorus of yells, groans and hollers accompany the music. Underneath it all, Merlin can make out the sound of dice in a cup.

A familiar voice yells out in triumph and the crowd parts to allow Merlin a glimpse of Gwaine seated at the table, grinning ear to ear as he pulls his winnings close, sliding them into a pouch. Only about a quarter actually go into the pouch as Gwaine uses sleight of hand to deposit the rest in safe places all over his body.

He glances up and sees Merlin standing there. With a final flourish and a toss of his hair, he stands, coming over. “Merlin!” He hugs the warlock tight. “Where have you been? Were you so much trouble to Will that he locked you up?” Gwaine jokes, gripping Merlin by the shoulders and tugging him over to their table.

Merlin feels heat behind his eyes and has to blink and swallow before he can speak properly without breaking down. Shaking his head mutely, he grips Gwaine’s hand and moving past their corner; he leads them to the very back of the tavern, their backs to the wall. Gwaine listens silently as Merlin relates all that has happened since he last saw his friend.

“I always knew Kilgharrah was tied up in Pendragon politics. The question is why? Why block off all his doors into society and then give him a back door?” Gwaine asks, looking gravely at the warlock.

“I hate riddles,” Merlin mutters, rubbing at tired eyes. “I’ve done nothing but think on them this entire time.”

“What you need is to relax and get your mind off of Kilgharrah and politics for a while,” Gwaine says with a grin, standing. He tugs at Merlin’s arm until the warlock is standing. “Come, dance with me. Soon you won’t be thinking of riddles.”

“I can’t,” Merlin protests, but still allows his friend to pull him onto the floor. Yells and shouts erupt as people see what they intend to do, the fiddler joined by someone on a drum. Merlin dances with too many people to properly remember and by the time he’s released, Merlin is winded, sweat dripping off of his brow as he steps off of the dance floor with Gwaine.

They never make it to their seats, a commotion outside drawing them out. Merlin can only blink and laugh at the sight that greets him. Arthur is stranded in the middle of a troupe of acrobats and magic users. As he watches, one of the girls flips and lands on his shoulders, hands flying up to release a torrent of illusionary butterflies whirling around them.

“Should we rescue him?” Merlin asks Gwaine, turning away slightly to see his friend’s face.

“You know him?” Gwaine asks.

“Unfortunately,” Merlin says with a sigh. Stepping forward, he lets his magic snap out, cutting through the illusion and the butterflies burst into sparks and then fade to nothing. The crowd that has gathered goes silent as they take in the new arrival.

“Get off of me!” Arthur growls, tossing the girl from his shoulders and she falls with a thud and rolls away to spring back up with a bound, all smiles and flourishes of her hands.

“No need to hurt a lady, princess,” Gwaine mocks, coming to stand beside Merlin.

Arthur shoots Gwaine a glare and turns to Merlin. “We’re leaving.”

“No,” Merlin says, sending a glare of his own at Arthur. “As you can see I am in no danger, so Kilgharrah shouldn’t be such a worrywart.”

“Damnit, Merlin, just get in the carriage,” Arthur hisses out, grabbing Merlin’s arm and tugging him forward.

They don’t make it two steps before Gwaine’s hand lands heavily on Arthur’s shoulder, gripping harshly, stopping the knight. “If he does not want to go with you, you cannot force him,” Gwaine says softly.

Merlin lets out a tired sigh, all the cheerfulness from before fading away, leaving him feeling empty, “Just leave it Gwaine. I’ll see you later.”

Sending one last look at Merlin, Gwaine lets go and steps away, eyes looking worried. Merlin waves once before Arthur and he disappear around the corner where the carriage is waiting.

The ride back is silent, Arthur’s fury near palpable from his seat opposite. His hand is a vice around Merlin’s arm as he marches the warlock to the study. Merlin is expecting anger for his disappearing act, but all he is met with is Kilgharrah’s cool gaze as he takes in their arrival.

He holds a scroll of parchment in his hand. “He has answered. Duc L’Ector will see me in two days.”

“That is good,” Merlin says, unsure of what more to say.

Kilgharrah flicks his eyes back to Merlin, a glimmer of smoldering anger just visible. “I warned you once, Merlin and I will not warn you again. Do not leave these grounds without my permission or I will sell your Mearcung.”

Merlin’s knees go a little weak, but he answers steadily, “Yes, my lord.”

Ignoring Arthur’s smirk as he makes his way out, Merlin grins when Kilgharrah takes in Arthur’s ruffled appearance, “What happened to you?” He doesn’t get to hear Arthur’s reply after shutting the door.

~*~

Not only does Kilgharrah get an escort of twenty men-at-arms to take him to the meeting point on L’Ector’s estates outside Camelot, but the captain of the guards tells him the one thing he does not wish to hear. “I was told to bring the others.”

Thus, Merlin, Freya and Arthur end up in the carriage with Kilgharrah, despite his protests. They make an impressive party leaving the city. The ride is short over fairly decent roads. The L’Ector estates are a large sprawling mass of forestland and grassy fields mixed together. A small river runs through it, behind the large, impressive building built on the lands.

They are spotted before they even reach the Chateau, the standard bearer waving his flag to an answering wave. The main gates open and they are escorted into the Duc’s receiving room. The room is much like Maris, showing the influence the Empire has had on the Duc while he was away. A throne-like chair carved from pale marble stands empty in the room. One of the guards leaves while the others station themselves around the room. They didn’t have to wait long before the sound of the Duc’s approaching footsteps heralded his arrival.

All of them bow as the Duc enters. Merlin looks up and takes in the Duc. He’s never met him before. The Duc has long blonde hair tied back in a loose tail and piercing blue eyes. He wears sensible clothing made of durable cloth, a practical man, despite his wealth. Merlin can see the resemblance between him and the late Queen from a portrait he had once seen of her.

“Kilgharrah, have you come to apologize for your sins against my House?” He asks, settling onto his chair.

“I have come to propose that we place these matters behind us, where they belong,” Kilgharrah says softly.

“After you helped kill my cousin, you think I should forgive you?” Duc L’Ector asks, eyes narrowing to slits.

“Yes,” Kilgharrah says simply. The men stir around them and the Duc raises a hand silencing them.

“Why? I heard what you had to offer, but how does that right the Balance between us? Why should I forgive you?” Kay asks, sitting forward.

Kilgharrah looks him dead in the eye. “Do you think that if I had known what was to happen, I would still go through with it? I would have rather been thrown I prison than be the death of her. I was just following my king’s orders.”

“Perhaps you speak truly, but you also are a master a speaking lies truthfully. You still haven’t given me an adequate reason to forgive,” Kay says with a snort, leaning back in his chair.

“I have sworn an oath, one for which you already know the terms,” Kilgharrah says quietly. Merlin leans forward, hoping that someone will explain.

Kay’s eyes go hard as he stares at Kilgharrah. “You still stand by that oath, even after all these years? Despite all that Uther has done to cripple you?”

“I did not swear it to Uther,” Kilgharrah says quietly. Merlin wants to scream at them to explain what they are talking about. He holds his tongue.

“It seems Uther takes it seriously, despite how much he hates you. Two whores and a knight only you would think of keeping such a group, Kilgharrah.” Shifting forward once more, he looks past Kilgharrah at them. “Which of you knows who killed my cousin?”

Freya steps forward and curtsies, “I do.”

“You then, which of the Bois line did it?” Freya flinches slightly and Kay grins sharply, all teeth and no mirth. “You think I do not have ears. I know my sister died of poison and not childbirth. My cousins and extended family deals much in poison, I have long known that. You were attacked also, with one man killed and now Reynold Gunter is nowhere to be found. I hear he also paid an extensive amount for your virgin price. Who was it?”

Keeping herself composed, she turns back to Kilgharrah. “My lord?”

Kilgharrah nods, “Tell him.”

“Maria and Agravaine,” she says softly.

Merlin watches as his face grows calm and knows that soon Agravaine and his wife are soon to be dead. “Did Reynold offer proof?”

Freya shakes her head. “no, but he carried a gift of apples coated in honey, put in his hand by Agravaine, but it was Maria who knew how the queen loved the sweetened fruit. Reynold delivered them himself.”

“There was an empty container next to her bed, but it was empty and no one knew what had been in it, though we suspected,” he murmurs.

“He tried to say it was Morgause, since she can no longer refute it. I do not think he would have had me attacked if the second time was a lie,” Freya says.

“You knew I still have influences in Tintagel when you contacted me,” Kay says, turning to Kilgharrah. “My reach is further than yours at the moment. Why go to all these lengths to avenge my cousin?”

“You know that Agravaine as two daughters and four grandchildren, all of royal blood,” Kilgharrah says.

“Yes, and also that Tristan is still hale and will rule for some time, while Uther’s health fails and many whisper that Prince Dillon was innocent and that Morgana is unfit to rule because of the circumstances of her birth. I do not need a lesson in politics and thrones, Kilgharrah,” Kay says harshly, resting his chin on his fist heavily.

“No, you do not, though I must congratulate you on your daughter’s marriage,” Kilgharrah says.

Kay snorts softly. “Perhaps you are right and our interests do run in a similar line. You do know that any actions I take against Agravaine and Maria will not be entirely honorable?”

“You have enough power in Tintagel to take Reynold into custody. Some leverage and he would certainly spill about his doings and Tristan would see that justice is upheld.”

“That’s right you two were old comrades at the Battle of Highpass, were you not? Tristan always has been overly honorable. He should never have taken the throne, no stomach for politics.” He stares into the distance for a few moments before his eyes turn to Merlin. “So, you’re Kilgharrah’s warlock? The one spying on D’Cote for your master.”

“My lord, I am just a servant of the Balance and my lord Kilgharrah only used me in such a capacity to right the Balance between you two,” Merlin murmurs with a slight bow.

“Indeed,” Kay says with a twitch of his mouth. “I’ve wanted to see the two who outwitted my best counselor and the shrewdest trader in Albion and to see if Kilgharrah is willing to risk them to have this meeting.” He turns back to Kilgharrah, “It seems you are. So, it’s the old promise then?”

“If you wish to discuss this, then I ask that it be in private,” Kilgharrah says quickly.

“They don’t know? What loyalty you command. But what of you, where do your loyalties lie?” Kay asks, looking at Arthur.

“I am bound by my vow to preserve life. I am a knight, I protect and serve,” Arthur says simply.

Kay’s gaze is sharp as he looks at Arthur. “Indeed. You are dismissed. Garwin, take them to the kitchens and feed them. Shall we proceed, Kilgharrah?”

They are silent as they are herded out of the room and to the kitchens. Once they have been served, they are left alone. Merlin can only take a few bites at a time, tension turning his stomach to knots.

“Who is he that he commands such attention from two royal families?” Arthur asks softly.

“Kilgharrah keeps things from us that could get us killed if we knew them,” Merlin admits, looking at the knight. “Beyond that, he is Kilgharrah and that is all we can say. If you want to try your luck then go ahead.”

“Maybe I will,” Arthur mutters.

~*~

Merlin isn’t sure what passes between Kilgharrah and Duc Kay l’Ector, but a truce of sorts is reached. As autumn continues, the days grow shorter and the air cooler. Soon the harvest will be coming in. No new information comes in except for the occasional sighting of the Pict.

Merlin is left to wait, Kilgharrah still unwilling to let him out until matters have been resolved. His coffers remain empty and his Mearcung grows no longer. Merlin knows it is for his safety, but he still resents the day Freya goes in for her final appointment. She is free while Merlin is still chained, as he has been all his life.

Merlin still goes with her and admires it as he is supposed to. It is a thing of beauty, the graceful ripple of muscle in the feline’s muscles and the energy of the piece. Arthur, out of place in his black tunic, ignores them, eyes kept resolutely facing outside.

Merlin is restless that night, unable to sleep. Wandering down the stairs in hopes of reading something to calm his mind, he nearly doesn’t see Freya slipping into the library ahead of him. Curiosity getting the better of him, Merlin steps softly until he is just at the door, hidden in shadow.

Kilgharrah is already in there, reading from a scroll. He marks his place and looks up at Freya. “Yes?”

“My lord, you have not asked to see my Mearcung,” she says softly.

“Master Saracen does excellent work. I’ve no doubt it is well crafted,” Kilgharrah hedges.

“It is. My lord, my debt to you is not concluded until you have seen it and acknowledged it. Will you see?” Merlin is surprised that Freya knows of the tradition of the Court. Merlin can see that Kilgharrah does know of this tradition as he nods and sets the scroll aside and rises.

Freya turns, and slipping the already unlaced dress from her shoulders, drops it to show him. “Is my lord pleased?”

“Does it hurt?” he asks softly, standing close behind her. She shakes her head.

Freya turns to look up at him. Kilgharrah’s hand comes up to brush a few strand of hair off of her shoulder, resting against the smooth curve of flesh. Merlin isn’t sure if Kilgharrah will push her away or not, but Freya takes this into consideration and instead grips his arm to tug him down into a soft kiss. “Everything I have done was for your sake. Will you do this one thing for mine?” Merlin hears her whisper.

Before he can hear more, Merlin turns and runs as silently as he can from the scene. His heart feels constricted and the bitter taste of envy wells up in his throat. That they are both free for such things galls him, brings tears to his eyes. Like his namesake, he just wants to be able to fly free and yet he is still chained down. He lets his tears go, pressing his face into the pillow.

Merlin is exhausted and hollowed out in the morning, his emotions and magic seemingly drained by his tears. Freya and Kilgharrah are quiet, but he can see the signs of their night. Freya has light rings under her eyes, while Kilgharrah seems to have lost some of his tension.

The only thing that seems to keep him from falling into some sort of depression is the fact that news from Tintagel arrives that morning. It is Uriens who brings the news. The news he brings from the castle is mixed.

Reynold Gunter had been taken into custody by Tristan de la Bois but had been found dead in his cell, hung by his own belt. Rumor was that the normal jailer had been replaced by someone who owed a debt to Agravaine de la Bois. Search for the man found him floating in a river, drowned. When they pulled him out, they found his throat had been slashed.

Tristan is no fool and sends for his brother. But Kay L’Ector or his cousin, fear Agravaine’s slimy words will get him free. Their party is attack en route by masked bandits with deadly accuracy with bows. All flee without getting caught and four are left dead, Agravaine one of them.

“There is a rumor that Duc Kay l’Ector had something to do with it and that Tristan would have pressed matters if rumors of the Pict warlord in the north hadn’t caught his attention. What with Tintagel being so close to the northern mountains, he has started to gather troops, just in case.”

Kilgharrah shakes his head. “Duc L’Ector? You’re joking, old friend.” Puffing on his pipe, he stares into space for a second before looking at Uriens again. “Tristan takes it that seriously?”

“He does. He has sent word to Pellinore de Dieu to keep his eyes and ears open. We’re fortunate to have young Valiant d’Alene to protect our borders.

“Indeed,” Kilgharrah mused. “So there is no talk of retribution from the Bois family?”

“Not currently. To be honest, I don’t think Tristan will mourn his brother’s death much. Agravaine had always been an ambitious man and Tristan’s hold on his throne was never safe with his brother around,” Uriens says softly. Kilgharrah only hums in acknowledgment.

Merlin waits until Uriens leaves before speaking up. “My lord, you said I could return to service once matters had settled.”

“I did, didn’t I?” He drags on his pipe in thought. “Well, I see no reason to delay any longer. Just so long as you take the knight with you.”

“I will. Are there any offers?” Merlin asks.

“A few, did you have anyone in mind?” Kilgharrah asks, looking at him.

Merlin drew in a deep breath, “I have a Balance to settle with Lord Breunor d’Cote.”

“D’Cote? He had made an offer the other week, but I am minded to let his anger cool. Besides, he has served his purpose and I see no need for you to see him again.”

“My lord, you once told me that I am a tool of the Balance. If I truly am, than I must do this, for there is a debt between us that must be righted,” Merlin says, looking Kilgharrah straight in the eye.

“Very well, if you’re sure of this, I will have the contract drawn up and signed. Just, be careful,” he says, laying a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin can only nod.

~*~

Merlin’s assignation with D’Cote is as he expects, D’Cote’s anger not having abated at all. Merlin allows D’Cote to take his anger out on his body, relishing in it, in the freedom it gives him like nothing but his magic can do. By the end, he is a limp mass on the floor with D’Cote running gentle fingers through his hair.

“Never again, Merlin. Promise me this,” he says softly.

“I promise my lord,” Merlin breaths out, and hopes his words are not turned into lies by Kilgharrah.

Arthur’s eyes are round, his mouth pinched when Merlin stumbles into the receiving room. He must look worse than he thought. “What…Merlin…” Arthur can’t seem to finish his sentence.

Merlin isn’t sure what causes it, but his knees give out and only Arthur’s quick actions keep him from falling to the floor. With little effort, the knight scoops him up into his arms. “Arthur, I can walk you know,” Merlin mutters.

“Not from what I can see, idiot,” Arthur says, shaking his head stubbornly. “Open the door,” he orders the servant.”

Merlin sighs and settles against Arthur’s broad chest as the knight carries him out into the courtyard of D’Cote’s townhouse. “I’m an idiot. This is what I do,” Merlin informs him as Arthur settles Merlin into the carriage that had been drawn for them.

“I wish I knew what I had done that was so bad to be force to watch idly while you do your ‘job’,” he mutters.

“I didn’t ask you to be here,” Merlin hisses as the coach starts to pull away.

“And you wonder why I call you an idiot,” Arthur says.

~*~  
Merlin heals quickly and ignores Kilgharrah’s knowing look and comment on his “being in one piece.” During this break, Kilgharrah holds a small dinner party, inviting a few friends. Juliana de Listinoise is among those invited.

She returns some days later and Merlin thinks she is there for Kilgharrah but she instead wishes to invite him to see a performance by a troupe of players. No one except Gwaine had ever invited him for something for pleasure of his company and he look to Kilgharrah earnestly. “He will be safe with me, Kilgharrah. I am under protection of the Pendragon line and only someone truly foolish would try to harm me.”

“You’re right. Very well, but you will behave yourself, he says sternly to Merlin.

Forgetting his anger with Kilgharrah momentarily, Merlin jumps up and hugs him around the neck, grinning. Leaving a startled expression on Kilgharrah’s face, Merlin goes running off to fetch his cloak.

Merlin had seen a few plays during his trips to the lower town, but he had never seen an actual, professional production. By the end, he is bursting with energy, thanking Juliana again and again.

“I thought you might like it,” she says to him with a smile. “Would you like to meet the playwright?” Merlin nods and follows her backstage. It is full of noise and chaos as they chatter about the success of the play while cleaning up.

The playwright, the only one in sober garb, walks up. “Juliana, so glad you could make it,” he says, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“It was wonderful. Dagonet nó Madela-Camnen, May I introduce Merlin nó Emrys who also enjoyed your play very much.”

Before Merlin could answer, there is a stirring at the door and in steps the king’s chamberlain, Medrain Karen. “My lord Medrain, you honor us tonight,” Dagonet, says.

“Of course,” he says with a sniff, waving his handkerchief in front of his nose. “Your play was well met and will be performed for His Highness five days hence.” With another wave and a “good evening” he is gone from the room.

The room bursts into cheers and Juliana wraps an arm around Merlin’s shoulders. “You must come with us to the Rising Sun.” The Rising Sun is a players’ house and only guild-members and guest are able to enter. Merlin, as a guest of the King’s poet, is let in and spends the rest of the evening eating and drinking while listening to all the stories the players have to offer.

Merlin’s ears perk up when one of the players starts to speak of politics, “I hear rumor that Duc D’Alene met in secret with Uther to bid for Morgana’s hand in marriage. Is it true?” he asks turning to Juliana.

Juliana shrugs. “I have not heard of it, but I cannot be everywhere,” she says with a smile.

Merlin listens to the murmurs around them before finally asking, “What was the king’s answer?”

Dagonet turns to look at Merlin, “He declined and gave no reason as he has with all suitors. I think Duc D’Alene thought he was owed something for his help in bringing the Escetian throne to justice and maybe he is but it is not Morgana’s hand.” The talk turns away to other things and Merlin dives into it, leaving that little nugget for later to mull over.

It is nearing midnight by the time Juliana’s carriage carries him back home. He thanks her again, feeling lighthearted for the first time in a long time. She holds his hand gently. “I’m glad I was able to cheer you so. I know you resent Freya and Kilgharrah their freedom, but do not try and ruin this for them. Both have lost a lot in their lives, especially Kilgharrah. They deserve to be happy. Please allow them this small thing.”

“I will try, my lady,” Merlin murmurs. She smiles and placing a kiss on his cheek, bids him goodnight.

Kilgharrah is unsurprised by Duc D’Alene’s bid for Morgana’s hand or the king’s response. Merlin would have put the whole thing behind him, if Kilgharrah hadn’t received a letter with a summons to see the play that Merlin had seen. He glances at the letter and sees the royal Pendragon seal on it.

Merlin is contracted on the same day as the play with Lucas Maris, Duc L’Ector’s man. Arthur accompanies him, though they have spoken little since the night of D’Cote’s assignation. If he feels uncomfortable about Merlin’s assignations, he doesn’t show it.

Merlin’s mind is half on the play and Kilgharrah’s mysterious invitation to attend. Maris doesn’t seem to notice and by the end of their assignation he is please, handing Merlin a full purse. Tying it to his belt, he glances up at Maris, “My lord is there another way out of your quarters?” he asks softly.

“There is the servant’s entrance through the kitchen. Why do you ask?” he asks leaning forward.

Merlin flicks his eyes around, trying to look mysterious, before leaning forward. “There is…someone I must meet with, who has made an offer, but they do not like having knights on their doorstep. But Knight Arthur is bound to follow me no matter what. Kilgharrah has asked me to deliver a message without Arthur trailing me.”

“I could send the message for you,” he says.

“No!” Merlin shakes his head. “My reputation depends on my discretion. What would people think if word got out that I am telling patron secrets to others? All I ask is that you have my carriage sent to the west wing along with Arthur, I would be most grateful…as would certain others.”

Maris thinks it over. He nods, “Easily done and you will put in a good word with your master?” Merlin nods as well.

“Of course,” he says, pulling on his cloak. With a final bow, Merlin slips from the room. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know the castle that well and is soon lost among its many halls and corridors. It takes him some time to find an exit from the servant’s corridors and ends up in a deserted hall. He can hear boots and voices around the corner.

Merlin quickly runs to a shadowed niche right before they turn the corner, using his dark cloak to hide behind. “Damn it!” A man yells out, voice livid. “It is too much to ask for the protection of the realm. That old fool should realize he owes me somewhat!”

“Maybe he’s right, Valiant. After all, you did betray Prince Dillon, do you really think Dillon’s Men would follow you? Besides, they’re Escetian men.”

“They’re a hundred hardened warriors trained to fight in the mountains. If the old fool can’t realize that, then perhaps I’ll start recruiting from the villages. Let’s see how much he likes the blood of peasants on his head.”

The two turn the corner and barrel passed his hiding place. Merlin waits until their footsteps fade before leaving his hiding place. Shaking a little Merlin starts to walk in the opposite direction. If he hadn’t been lost, he would have given up. As it is, he keeps walking in the hopes of finding a familiar landmark.

Eventually, he finds his way to the royal theater. Of course, he had forgotten about the Castle Guard placed on every entrance. Remembering the other theater’s layout, he slips out of his cloak, folding it over his arm. Hoping to fool the guard, he walks by, towards what he hopes is the player’s quarters. The guard says nothing and Merlin slips in unhindered.

It is the players’ quarters and it is deserted as they are all on stage or behind scenes. Slipping into the first room he sees, he starts to poke around, hoping to find something. A click sounds in the quiet room. Jerking up, he sees the mirror start to move as it opens outward on hidden hinges. Thinking fast, he throws himself under a chair heaped with props and cloth, tugging until they cover him, but leave a gap to see through.

As the mirror shift to reflect his hiding space, he can see nothing of himself visible and relaxes a little. Merlin nearly jerks as the door opens and Kilgharrah comes walking in at the same time as Morgana de la Pendragon steps down from a secret passage behind the mirror.

He nods to her. “I am here at your summons,” he says simply.

“Do you know this ring?” she asks, holding out a thin golden band set with two seed pearls and an emerald in the center.

“Yes.”

“Is it true that you have sworn an oath upon it?” she asks again.

“Yes, I have sworn an oath on Ygraine de la Pendragon’s ring,” Kilgharrah answers.

“Then tell me your news,” she demands, pale face tense, dark blue eyes shifting around uneasily.

“There is none, my lady. I am still waiting for word from Petit Fils. If there had been any news, I would have come here straight away,” he tells her.

“My father would use you and keep me from you. But I needed to speak with you by myself, to know the truth,” she says softly, thin shoulders, sagging under the weight of her words.

“My lady, it is not safe here for you or to speak these words,” Kilgharrah murmurs.

Morgana snorted. “I have the queen’s rooms now. There was once a queen enamored with a player and had this passage built to meet with him secretly. She walks over and presses the hidden button to open the mirror-door. “My Lord Emrys, I am alone in this world, with no friends close at hand and no way of knowing whom I can trust. Will you help me in this on your vow to the late queen?”

Kilgharrah bows deeply. “My lady, I am at your disposal.”

“Then come,” Morgana says softly, climbing back into the secret passage, Kilgharrah following. It shuts with a soft clock and the room goes silent again. Merlin waits until he is certain they are gone before leaving his hiding place. He can feel awe welling up inside him at what he has just witnessed.

Taking a steadying breath, he readies himself for his next confrontation. Leaving the room quickly, he makes his way to the west wing.

Arthur is standing by the carriage, fuming, and his rage palpable. “I will not have my oath compromised because you—”

“Arthur,” Merlin snaps. “Is your oath to protect your charge?”

“You know it is,” Arthur hisses.

“Then hold your tongue and ask me nothing. The knowledge that I have just gotten could get both of us and many others killed and would endanger House Pendragon. And do not mention it to Kilgharrah or he’ll have both our head,” Merlin warns, uncaring at the moment.

Merlin settles into the carriage and soon Arthur joins him. Giving the order for the diver to go, he studies Merlin from across the carriage but remains silent, curiosity evident in his gaze.

~*~

Kilgharrah returns in the small hours of the morning and speaks nothing if the event. Merlin half expects Arthur to give him away, but the knight holds his tongue, going through his drills relentlessly despite the biting cold air.

As usual, Merlin watches, bundled up in a cloak. He watches as Arthur completes the last move and reattaches his sword to his belt. The knight walks over to him, breathing heavily and sweating, despite the cold.

“Do you swear that what you have asked of me will not dishonor my oath?” he asks, blue eyes staring intently at Merlin.

Merlin swallows. “I swear,” he says, teeth chattering slightly.

“Then I will say nothing this once. So long as you do not deceive me again. I do not stop you from your honoring your oath, do not keep me from honoring mine,” Arthur says.

“All right,” Merlin says, nodding quickly. They say nothing as they walk back inside where the roaring fire has heated the study.

Freya is already there, reading from a scroll while others and mounds of books surround her. Settling into the chair beside her, Merlin looks at all the titles. All have something to do with the Fisher King.

“A bit of light reading?” Merlin asks with a raised brow. Freya shakes her head, marking her place to look up at him. “Do you think you can solve his riddle?”

“No one else has, might as well try,” she says with a grin.

“Who, Kilgharrah?” Arthur asks, browsing through the shelves of books. “He’s got everything but lost Book of Wæge. Can he even read Dragon?” Arthur asks, holding up a thin bound book.

“Probably, though I doubt he would tell us,” Merlin says, not even looking at Arthur.

“How long has it been since you were home?” Freya asks, looking at Arthur.

Arthur stiffens and he says, “my home is where my duty leads me.”

“Oh, don’t be such a knight and answer the question,” Merlin says with a lazy grin.

Arthur turns away, but answers, “I don’t have one.”

“What?” Merlin asks, looking at Arthur likes he’s lying. “What do you mean you don’t have a home?”

“I’ve lived with the Brother’s since I was a baby,” Arthur mutters, back still to them.

“I’m sorry,” Freya says softly.

Arthur shrugs, “It’s not like I knew my parents. How can I miss what I never had.”

“My parents sold me to the Court,” Merlin says, still staring at Arthur’s tense back.

Both Freya and Arthur look at him. “You never mentioned that,” Freya says.

Merlin shrugs, “It was a long time ago. They’d fallen on hard times and in a way, them selling me was a way to protect me. I at least had food in my belly and a roof over my head. I’ve not seen them since I was five.”

Wanting to change the subject, Merlin turns to Freya, “What can you tell us about Kilgharrah these days?” Merlin can’t keep the slight bitterness from his words and her eyes widen a little. She knows he knows about the two of them.

Freya turns her head away and Merlin clenches his fist. “You know, don’t you?” Merlin accuses. “He’s told you.” Merlin thumps his fist on the table, the books and scrolls trembling from the force. “Damn it, Freya, we promised to share everything with each other,” Merlin hisses.

“That was before I knew,” she says softly. “I only know part of it, to help in research. He made me promise not to tell you anything until you made your Mearcung. You’re so close already,” she pleads with him softly.

“Will you see?” Merlin snaps back and Freya pales as her words are shot back at her.

“You were the one who told him, Merlin. It would have never happened if you hadn’t said,” she reminds him.

“Don’t you think I know that,” Merlin says, grabbing a fist full of hair and tugging harshly. Merlin lets out a harsh sigh. “I saw how much you watched him and had to help, but it hurts. I see you two and can’t help but wish to be free. My wings are still clipped while you two fly away and it hurts sometimes.” Merlin deflates as the last of his anger fades away, leaving him feeling hollow.

“I’m sorry,” Freya murmurs softly into his ear, pulling him close. Merlin can see Arthur leaving the room silently, but just holds onto Freya tighter. He’s sorry to have driven the man away, but this conversation has been long in coming and could not be avoided.

“I know,” Merlin mutters into her shoulder. “I wish for once, you would be selfish so that I could hate you. I guess I’ll just have to settle on wishing you well and resenting you for what you know and won’t tell.”

“I probably would be the same,” Freya admits.

Merlin snorts, “Probably.” At that moment, Kilgharrah walks in and clears his throat. They both jerk apart and the chair Merlin is in topples, sending him sprawling.

Kilgharrah smirks a little as Merlin winces due to a banged elbow and straightens back up. “I have come to inform you that Nimueh is here and has come to make an offer for an assignation,” Kilgharrah says aloud.

“What?” Merlin says, rushing to get the chair all the way up. “Why can’t that woman ever send a courier like a normal person?”

“Because she is a long standing friend and likes to see you discomforted. Shall I say you will be with us shortly in the receiving room?” Merlin nods and Kilgharrah walks out again.

Merlin runs a shaking hand through his hair and over his clothing, trying to look like he hasn’t just been rolling on the floor. “You’re fine, Merlin, go,” Freya says, tugging on his hem to straighten his tunic and shooing him from the room.

He can hear them laughing before he opens the door. “Ah, Merlin, there you are. I have made an offer Kilgharrah finds acceptable. My lord the Duc Mordred de Porte will be visiting Camelot for the Midwinter festivities and he shall be holding a masquerade. Many of the invited guests will be bringing sorcerers and such and I should like to bring a genuine warlock. Are you contracted for the Longest Night?”

Merlin swallows loudly and shakes his head, “No, my lady, I am not contracted.”

“Well then, do you accept?” she asks and smirks at him, a curl of the lips that has his mind going blank momentarily.

“Yes,” Merlin says, just as Arthur walks in.

Nimueh looks at the knight. “It seems you will have a long vigil, knight,” she informs him.

Arthur just bows to her, face void of any expression. “I protect and serve,” he says evenly, his eyes hard as sapphires as they stare at Nimueh.

Nimueh just arches a brow at him and makes no comment except to smirk again. Kilgharrah coughs to break the tension. “Then the Longest Night it is,” he says. “You don’t do anything by halves, my lady.”

“No,” Nimueh says, smiling at Kilgharrah. “You know I don’t.”

“What is your game with Duc Porte?” Kilgharrah asks.

“Oh, nothing but province politics. It seems my dear Duc needs some reminding about just who’s house is the oldest and most magical,” she says with a small wave of her hand.

“And that’s it?” Kilgharrah asks.

“For Mordred, that is it. What my other reasons are shall remain my own,” she says with a small smile. With a curtsy, she leaves the three of them in the room.

~*~

Merlin frets himself into froth as Midwinter slowly approaches. So much so that Kilgharrah eventually sends a letter to Nimueh who replies back that Merlin should not worry. She will see to everything. Merlin isn’t sure if this is meant to comfort or worry him more, but he allows it to settle his nerves somewhat. Kilgharrah pays his worries little heed, immersed in some grander scheme that has no need for Merlin or Nimueh.

The snows come and block the northern passes and soon word comes of the Pict raiding parties again, the name Selises Arrœk carried by the ruthless barbarians on their lips. Camelot and Escetian warriors ride the boarder under Duc Valiant D’Alene.

Another story makes itself known of how Uther had ordered Persant de Dieu, son of the Royal Commander Pellinore de Dieu, to sail a small fleet against Hibernia in hopes of getting at Galway, the traitorous son who killed his own father to gain the throne, but they could not for the Fisher King made his wrath known and the waves rose high into the sky, blocking the fleet form continuing its journey. Despite this failure and with the approval of the other Alban Kings, he awards Persant the stewardship of the Escetian throne until such a time as a successor can be found.

Freya still spends her days pouring over the most obscure books and scroll for any hint of the Fisher King. Even Plaine de Bawes comes one day, laden down with copies of books and scrolls that they had sent for and word of rumors that the Pict and Selises Arrœk looking to the south, at the land full of dissention.

Uther and the other kings still hold their thrones and no one questions their right with each kingdom having its own army and navy. But Uther is not getting any younger and with Persant’s hold on the Escetian throne tenuous at best, if Camelot and Escetia are to fall, the other kingdoms will be hard pressed to defend themselves from the invading Pict force.

At the moment though, Merlin has his own concerns. Kilgharrah always tells him what he should look for on an assignment, but when he asks, the man just shrugs. “Nimueh is Nimueh and if you can learn anything of her game, it will be useful. But she is careful, even around you. Just be wary not to let anything slip and keep your eyes and ears open.”

Sighing, Merlin nods, “I will, my lord.”

Kilgharrah readjusts his cloak again. “Be careful, Merlin and enjoy yourself. You deserve it joy on the Longest Night, young warlock.”

Gripping Merlin’s shoulder one last time, Kilgharrah lets go and Merlin gets into the waiting carriage, Arthur already waiting. They are quiet as the carriage pulls away. It is dark already, the day shortest today, and their breath fogs in what little light there is.

“What would you be doing if you weren’t contracted to Kilgharrah?” Merlin asks, looking out the window at the passing buildings, lights gleaming behind wooden shutters and panes of glass.

“I would hold vigil,” he says simply.

“No celebrating?”

“I knight should not need to celebrate,” Arthur says stiffly and Merlin stops talking and continues to stare out the window.

They arrive at Nimueh’s home shortly to be met by her, the Captain of her small guard and four of his men. They bow to Arthur as they step out. “Well met, knight. I am Harold Vardar, Captain of the l’Isle Guard and I bid you welcome on the Longest Night. Will you honor us with your company?”

Arthur is caught off guard and reacts out of reflex, bowing to the five men, “I would be honored.”

“There is a small shrine in the garden, should you wish to hold your vigil there, knight. Merlin, it is good to see you,” Nimueh says and places a small kiss on his cheek. Her perfume surrounds him, disorienting him momentarily before she pulls away and he is able to think properly again.

“Warrior, so full of honor. Do you think he might be a bit in love with you?” Nimueh asks turning to Merlin.

“Arthur despises me. In fact, he calls me an idiot at least once a day,” Merlin says. “My lady.”

“Love and hate are two sides of the same coin and it doesn’t take much for one to flip to the other,” Nimueh says, gripping his elbow and leading him inside. “You despise and love your patrons, do you not?”

“I…yes, my lady,” Merlin says softly.

“And how many of them do you fear?” she asks, looking ahead.

Merlin flicks his eyes up to her before answering, “One, not at all. Most, sometimes. You, my lady, always.”

She looks at Merlin then and smiles. “Good,” she says and Merlin shudders a little.

They reached an intersection of corridors. “My servants will help you ready for the masquerade. We leave for the party in an hours’ time.” Two servants appear out of nowhere and escort Merlin down a different hall than the one Nimueh is taking.

A fresh bath is waiting for Merlin, still steaming faintly. Merlin relaxes into the heated water, enjoying himself while one servant gets his clothing ready, another rubs scented oils into his skin and hair. By the time he gets out, his skin is flushed a soft pink and he is relaxed. They dry him off quickly and bring out his costume.

It is a gold, gauzy material. With closer inspection, Merlin can make out a pattern of scales embroidered into it with gold thread. Small beads of amber and tiger’s eye wink in the candle light. Merlin pulls it on with shaking hands, noticing the jagged section of cloth that connects between his arms and sides. Settling the mask that comes with it over his face, he stands there looking at himself in the mirror. A snarling dragon looks back, wings folded at the moment. Merlin can feel his face grow warm as he realizes how much is revealed by the material.

“Is this all of it?” Merlin asks, fearing what the servant might say.

“Yes my lord,” she answers and Merlin swallows heavily. He is about to be paraded before some of the most powerfully magical people in this.

“There is one more thing,” she says and pulls out a collar of woven metal wire. More semiprecious stones wink from their hiding places in it. Merlin’s cheeks grow even hotter as the woman slips the collar around his neck and snaps it into place.

Very nice, Nimueh says once they are done, standing in the door way. She is dressed in a black trailing dress, with bronze embroidery along the upper edge of her gown. A black mask covers the upper half of her face, the symbol for the Dragonlords embossed onto the shiny surface, bronze paint making it stand out sharply.

She is dressed as a Dragonlord and Merlin is her dragon. “Come,” she says and in her hands rests a least of woven wire. Merlin’s body moves before he can even think about it and by the time he comes to his senses, the leash is already hooked to the collar.

~*~

Merlin doesn’t know what to expect from a magical gathering, but it seems to be the same any other parties he has attended, if with a hint more of magical tension in the air. The crowds go silent as he and Nimueh step into the room.

The herald announces them and Merlin flushes even redder as those closest realize who exactly he is. Merlin trails behind Nimueh as she begins to circulate among the guest. Masked faces stare at him as they pass and Merlin wants to run, but he can’t, not with the leash still attached.

“Your grace,” Nimueh says with a curtsy.

“Ah, Nimueh,” Duc Mordred de Porte says with a placed glance between her and Merlin. “And what have you brought?”

She says nothing and Merlin sinks into an awkward bow, voice breathy as he says, “Joy to you your grace on the Longest Night.”

Merlin feels fingers under his chin and allows the Duc to lift his head. “No!” he says in disbelief as the Duc takes in Merlin’s eyes.

“Merlin nó Emrys,” Nimueh says with a smirk. “Did you not know that Camelot boasted a genuine warlock, your grace?” she asks.

“One cannot be completely certain of what one hears unless one has seen it with their own eyes,” the Duc says. He reaches forward then and runs a gentle finger down Merlin’s chest, magic sparking between the points of contact. Merlin can’t keep the small gasp in his throat.

Nimueh twitches the leash and pulls Merlin to face her. “The Duc is not your patron tonight, pet,” she warns him and Merlin swallows heavily at the threat in her words.

“No, my lady,” Merlin says.

Nimueh gives one final curtsy to Duc de Porte before leading Merlin off. He can’t for the life of him, say what happens after, his mind too caught up in the magic of the room, his own leaving him distracted. The only thing Merlin can truly remember is Nimueh’s laugh, every touch s she lays a hand a finger on his person, every spark of her magic though him, like heat lightening.

Merlin is glad Arthur cannot see him like this. They leave shortly after midnight and Merlin follows willingly, glad to be able to hide behind the carriage walls. He is hyperventilating from so much magic and the slightest touch feels like a jolt. His magic is going haywire under his skin and he can’t seem to catch his breath.

“Come here,” she says once again and Merlin can’t help but obey, allowing his body to mold to hers as she kisses him, devours him until nothing is left but a quivering mess of flesh and magic in her arms.

It takes him a moment to realize that they have reached Nimueh’s home and he blinks owlishly, his mask hanging askew on his face. Reaching up, he slips it off and steps out of the carriage into Nimueh’s courtyard. She guides him inside. Merlin shivers from cold and anticipation.

~*~

What passes, Merlin can’t properly recall, but certain parts remain clear. He can recall her stripping him of the costume, chucking it to some corner of her playroom. She had left him sitting in the middle of the bed, naked but for the collar. When she cuffed his wrists in padded leather manacles and hooked them to a hook and chain above the bed, he knew he was in for a long night. He jerked when she placed the blindfold over his eyes.

That was when she brought magic into the mix. After that, things became a blur as his magic reacted with hers. Hanging there, blind and hypersensitive to every shift of magic, she took him apart bit by bit. “You can end this, Merlin,” she murmurs to him. “All you have to do is say it.”

Merlin shakes his head. He hasn’t said it before and he won’t know. “As you wish.” She continues to work at him. He isn’t sure of how much time passes or what pours from his mouth, be it moans or secrets. All he knows is that when she asks him a second time, he caves. “Gwaine,” he near yells and he can feel her smirk even blindfolded.

“Such a good boy,” she says softly. “You may come now,” she hisses into his ear, finger tweaking his nipple harshly and Merlin cries out a second time, his magic exploding from him in a violent rush that leaves him gasping for breath while he shakes.

“Please,” Merlin whispers, barely able to lift his head.

“What do you want?” she asks, running a soft fingertip over his back.

“You,” Merlin groans out.

Nimueh laughs and unbinds his hands, letting him fall to the bed. “He trained you well, Kilgharrah. Your skill could match any of the Court. What do you plan to do once it’s done?” she asks, running a hand over his Mearcung, tracing its lines.

“I don’t know, my lady,” Merlin bites out.

“You should think on it. You’re so close to being done. Does he have a final target picked out for you?”

“I don’t know, my lady,” Merlin says between gritted teeth, trying to keep from succumbing to her magic again.

“Hmm, perhaps he’s satisfied with what you have done. After all, you got him L’Ector and revenge against Agravaine. Who do you think taught him to manipulate so? I taught him all I knew and he taught me to observe and think for myself. Such formidable gifts when combined,” she tells him.

“He says you two are well-matched in some ways,” Merlin admits.

“All but one, but then he’d already given his heart to another by the time I met him. Though a large part of it died that day Queen Ygraine died.”

“Ygraine?” Merlin jerks up in surprise, all thought of exhaustion forgotten by this snippet of information. All the pieces seem to be falling into place now.

“You really didn’t know, did you?” She strokes his cheek. “Of course he loved her. Ever since she saved him so long ago as he lay dying in the forest. Even though she married that Pendragon, he still remained true and followed her from Tintagel to Camelot, just to protect her.”

Merlin tries to process all that she has told him, but it’s hard to concentrate. “So if, he is no longer using you for his eyes and ears, what is he up to then?”

“Nothing,” Merlin says. “Reading, waiting for word from Petit Fils, nothing,” Merlin says, running a hand through his hair. Realizing too late what he let slip, he glances up, but Nimueh’s face is disinterested.

“Well, maybe he’ll have gotten word through De Porte. The fleet is anchored north of the Porte estates.” She says nonchalantly, running fingers over his pale skin. “He’ll want to see you now.”

“De Porte?” Merlin asks, confused as he tries to sift through all the information he has.

“Yes. He’s a creature of the Old Religion, though not as powerful as you or me. He will be drawn to you as you are to me, though you should remind him who it was that brought you to his attention.” Smirking again, she leans forward to brush a kiss over his cheek, whispering into Merlin’s ear, “Say your little friend’s name again.”

“Gwaine,” Merlin says softly and shudders.

~*~

Merlin wakes in the morning in a guest room and a servant waiting for him to wake. He lingers in the bath, hoping to wash away as much of the night before as possible. Eventually, though, he has to get out. He dresses and goes to the dining room where Arthur is already seated. Merlin looks away, unable to meet his eye.

Arthur seems unconcerned, since Merlin appears to be unharmed. He’s had worse with D’Cote, but that doesn’t mean he is whole at the moment. Nimueh appears shortly after. “Perhaps you should hold onto this knight, to keep him from losing it,” she says and tosses the coin purse. She walks forward and slips something around Merlin’s neck, and Merlin shivers as the woven metal collar settles around his neck heavily.

“That is to remember me by,” she whispers. She motions and a servant hands Merlin a wealth of gold thread, his outfit from the night before. “I’ve no need for rags, but I would like to see what a warlock is like when he is able to spread his wings finally,” she whispers and places a final kiss on cheek.

“My lady,” Merlin says, throat tight. She laughs and walks away, leaving Merlin staring after her with his arms full of material and Arthur watching him with a bemused look on his face.

~*~

By the time they arrive, both are tired, but it is still dark out, with the entire house still asleep. Arthur hands him his coin purse and excuses himself to go get some sleep. Merlin heads upstairs and places the coin purse in his coffer. Sitting, he stares at the heap of gold cloth on his bed. He is free, with all this, he is free.

It is a heady thing, one’s freedom and Merlin can’t seem to feel even the slightest bit tired. With nothing to do in his room, Merlin heads down to the study. If he remembers rightly, the book that Arthur had found is just, there.

He pulls it down. He hadn’t know it was there, wedged between two larger tombs. Merlin has always been curious about dragons and Dragonlords and this is his chance to learn more. Pulling a chair close to the dying fire, he places a log in the grate and curls up in the chair.

Holding it carefully, Merlin opens it to a random page. He’s expecting some incomprehensible language. What he sees is small, spidery script. When he first glances at it, it appears to be a language he doesn’t know, but something in him shifts and as he watches, the letters change and he can read each word.

_“The only thing that can command a dragon is a Dragonlord. This gift was given onto a select group of humans many generations ago, before the great treaty was made. This gift, passed from father to son upon the death of the father, allows the Dragonlord to not only communicate, but also command these great beasts._

_The last known Dragonlord was Ambrosia Antonius, the last recorded warlock. It was through him and the dragons that a great disaster was avoided, but in the process, he and the last dragon were slain. While Ambrosia Antonius body was found, none know of what befell the dragon. While the warlock line can be traced through the generations from one family, none know who the heir of Ambrosia Antonius is and when the next warlock will appear. It can only be assumed that at some point in the line of warlocks, a Dragonlord married into the family, thus, creating a new heritage for these powerful people.”_

Merlin shuts the book with a snap, breathing heavily. Gaius had never told him about Ambrosia being a Dragonlord and that they all came from the same family. He had just assumed they were chosen at random. But if he is descended from Ambrosia then that can only mean…

Merlin’s mind goes blank. He is a Dragonlord, or at least, he has the ability to become one. But with no dragons left, what is the point. Is his father even dead yet? Rubbing at his eyes, he glances up, the fire reflecting off of the metal frame of a picture frame. It is a portrait of Queen Ygraine.

Frowning, Merlin remembers Nimueh’s words and walks over to look at it. Taking it off of the wall, he turns it around. There is something written on the back in faded ink, _“Remember me with fondness, Kilgharrah and don’t hate me for what I must do. Ygraine de la Bois.”_

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Freya says and Merlin jumps, almost dropping the portrait.

“I had to know. Beside, Kilgharrah taught us to do this. Now, help me put it back,” he hisses and she sighs but comes forward to help him put it back on the wall straight.

They stood silent after it is done, but the house is silent. “So, Kilgharrah was in love with Ygraine who has been dead almost twenty years now. So what? Why does Uther still treat with Kilgharrah and award him with things behind closed doors while publicly shunning him? And why does he make peace with Duc L’Ector over Ygraine’s death?” Merlin asks staring at her hard, wanting answers now.

Freya looks away, “I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you,” Merlin says sharply.

“Believe what you want, but I too made a promise. Who told you, Nimueh?” Merlin doesn’t say anything but it is answer enough. Freya sighs, “I wish I knew what sort of game that woman was playing at. I could sleep so much easier.”

“What I know is that half the peers have known this for years and there is no reason to keep it hidden. Who would kill over such knowledge when the Queen has been dead all this time? Besides, it’s not what Kilgharrah was back then that is so dangerous, it is what he is now.”

“And I suppose Nimueh isn’t clever enough to send you fishing for that information?” Freya snaps back.

Merlin feels a chill run down his spin. That prophesy he had heard so long ago with Gwaine flashes in his mind and he isn’t sure if he want to know Kilgharrah so fully. “Will you tell Kilgharrah?”

She shook her head, “That is up to you, Merlin. If you’re wise, you’ll tell him.” With that she leaves him and he feels cold, despite the warmth of the fire.

~*~

In the end, he compromises and tells Kilgharrah everything but what Nimueh told him. It isn’t much since he was kind of out of it and Kilgharrah gives up after the fourth going over and turns his attention to the patron gift Nimueh had given him.

“What will you do?” he asks, look up at Merlin.

Merlin hasn’t had much time to think it over, but he does know what he wants, “My lord, in the Court, those who have made their Mearcung may stay with the Court until they decide to leave or retire. I don’t wish to leave.”

“You want to stay here?” he asks and smiles for the first time ever that Merlin can recall.

“If you will let me,” Merlin says, head bowed.

“Oh, young warlock, of course I will let you stay. I would turn gray in the head with worry if you left on your own. At least here, I can safeguard you as much as possible,” he says, wrapping an arm around Merlin’s shoulders.

“Thank you, my lord,” Merlin says.

“You are a member of this household and I would never throw you out. Now shall I have this appraised?” he asks, holding up the golden cloth.

“Yes, please,” Merlin says with a grin.

With Kilgharrah’s permission, Merlin takes a reluctant Arthur and rides down to the lower city. The carriage still has too many memories of Nimueh, though he still does wear her collar. The cold air bits in his lungs, but it feels good to ride, to clear his head. Gwaine gets him with warmth, pulling him in close.

“You won’t believe it, Merlin. A proper, full-fledged livery service. A noble’s carriage and only bought for a song,” Gwaine grins.

“You sand a verse to much, princess,” Arthur says with a smug grin. “The trim alone won’t cover those busted wheels.”

“I also know a cartwright who will do good work for a song, princess, so no need to worry your empty little head,” Gwaine shoots back and turns to Merlin. “Has Kilgharrah finally let you out of your cage? Can I buy you a tankard?”

“I’ll buy you one,” Merlin says, jingling his coin purse. “Come one Arthur, it won’t kill you to set foot into a peasant’s tavern,” Merlin says with a smirk in Arthur’s direction. With a huff, Arthur follows, glowering at Merlin and Gwaine.

Merlin tells Gwaine everything that happens while they sip at their mead. Gwaine runs a finger along Merlin’s collar, “Do you know what the stones alone would be worth?” he asks, looking at Merlin.

Merlin shakes his head, “A fair amount, I guess.”

“Merlin,” Gwaine says with a heavy sigh. “You could do quite a lot with that kind of money.”

“I can’t sell it,” Merlin says, remembering Nimueh’s words. “Don’t ask why.”

“Fine, so what else?” Gwaine asks.

Merlin looks over at Arthur, “Arthur could you go buy a jug for Gwaine’s boy over there?”

“No,” Arthur says flatly.

“I swear this is nothing like last time. It just you might not want to listen to this part. I won’t move from this chair,” Arthur still shakes his head. “Does your damn vow say you have to remain glued to my side?” Merlin asks with a hiss.

With an angry huff, Arthur snatches the coin from Merlin’s hand and walks away angrily.

“I hope we don’t need to rescue him like last time. Now what is it that you can’t say around him?” Gwaine asks.

Merlin quickly tells him about Nimueh, Kilgharrah, Ygraine. Gwaine whistles once he’s done. “That certainly explains a lot.”

“Indeed, but I still worry,” Merlin says.

“About that prophesy we heard?” Gwaine asks and Merlin nods.

“Either it was false or it is lying in wait for me,” Merlin admits.

“Let us hope it is the former,” Gwaine says somberly. Grinning again, he looks at Merlin with a twinkle in his eye, “you’re free now. You know what that means?”

“It means I can do what I want and travel where I’ve always wanted and go to greater heights than I could as Kilgharrah’s warlock,” Merlin says with a grin, knocking the wind out of Gwaine’s sails.

“You already know what it will bring, but you will need to choose,” Gwaine says, tapping at the collar around his neck.

“I’ve only just gotten free and I want to taste freedom. Not give it up the moment I get it,” Merlin snaps, knocking his hand away.

“I’d walk with you wherever you went and I wouldn’t put a collar on you. I’d let you fly free,” Gwaine says softly.

“Your father collared your mother with poverty after he died and you would collar me with a ring once you got me, no matter what you say about not being a noble,” Merlin snaps.

“You know what I mean, Merlin,” Gwaine says softly.

“I know, Gwaine, but that’s the problem,” Merlin says, remembering the book and all that it hid. He needs to find out who he truly is before even thinking about his future. For a moment, Merlin thinks this is the point where Gwaine decides Merlin isn’t worth it, and his heart is in his throat.

Then Gwaine flashes his easy grin and tosses his hair, “Then fly away little bird. I will just search for you and find you and do it all over again when you fly away. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Merlin laughs easily, his heart light and kisses Gwaine on the mouth, who kisses back with skill. He has been taught well from all those lords and ladies he dallied with. Arthur fist slams onto the table with Merlin’s change and they jump apart like guilty children and grinning like fools. Arthur just looks at them dourly and sits back in his chair.

Arthur is silent the whole ride back, his brooding silence grating on Merlin’s nerves. “There was no harm in it. I’ve made my Mearcung and I’ve no bond to betray now.”

“Your Mearcung is not finished yet and it is none of my business where you bestow your…gift,” Arthur bites out. Spurring his horse forward, Arthur leaves Merlin behind, forcing the warlock to scramble to keep up. Merlin spends the rest of the ride glaring at Arthur’s back.

~*~

It doesn’t take long for the assessor to get back, the gold weighted and assessed for purity. Merlin is presented with a large sum of money. Remembering the sting of Arthur’s words, Merlin quickly schedules his final appointment with Master Saracen.

Merlin spends the days up to his appointment in a weird limbo, neither bond-servant, nor a free Alban. Merlin spends his time thinking back on his life, wondering how he got to this point.

The day of the appointment dawns clear and crisp, the cold somewhat lessened with the rising sun. Kilgharrah, expecting a visitor, gives them permission to take the horses to ride to the tattooist shop. Though Master Saracen is not a greedy man, he is an artist and Merlin is the first warlock in generations. The fame this finished Mearcung will bring him will give him patrons aplenty.

Most of the first hour is spent reconfirming designs and lines. Merlin can see Arthur through the curtain in the front of the shop, looking bored. Merlin doesn’t care though, let him wait. He is finally getting his chains cut from him and will not be rushed.

A commotion at the front of the shop has Merlin looking up. Master Saracen’s apprentice comes in wide eyed. “There is a man looking for Merlin nó Emrys. The knight has him in hand; shall we send for the Day Guard?”

“Who is he?” Merlin asks, tucking the sheet around his waist.

“I don’t know. He says he has a message which must be delivered to Lord Kilgharrah. Shall I send for the guard?”

“No, send him and Arthur in,” Merlin says, quickly tugging on his breeches and tunic. “Master Saracen…?”

“Use the back room if you must warlock,” Saracen says with a wave and Merlin thanks him just as the man walks in with Arthur tugging his arm up behind his back.

“Call off your knight, I have a message that must be delivered to Kilgharrah immediately,” the man says loudly.

Arthur gives the man a shove into the small back room and Merlin stares at him. “Who are you?” Merlin asks.

The man rubs at his arm. “I’m Uris Gaud of the Osprey. I am oath-sworn to Admiral Petit Fils. I’m supposed to be meeting with your lord, Kilgharrah.”

“And how do I know this?” Merlin asks.

“Damn it, there was a password, um…what was it…ah yes, I swear it on the Queen’s draca, her only born,” he says quickly. Merlin’s mind goes into overdrive, trying to figure out what it could mean. The queen’s only born child was Prince Arthur who died at child birth. So what could it mean?

“Very well then, why are you here?” Merlin asks.

“There are men watching the coast and when I checked out Lord Kilgharrah’s home, they were watching there as well. They’re even watching me. Someone slipped up and gave ‘em word. I saw you leave and followed,” he says.

“What is the word from Fils, then?” Merlin asks, feeling a numbing chill settle over his body. The man took a breath, “When the Red Hart rules in Hibernia, the Fisher King will accede. That is my message,” he says to them.

Merlin’s hands are shaking when he presses a coin into the sailor’s hands, a silver piece, he doesn’t care. “Thank you, I will tell him immediately and he will send word.” Uris takes the coin and with a quick nod, is gone from the room and shop.

Shaking, Merlin looks at Arthur. “The house” is all he says before they are both off for their horses. They ride like the wind that day, bent hell for high water to get back in time. The horses, seeming to sense their desperation, set off the moment they are in the saddle.

It’s too late. It is quiet in the courtyard when they arrive, jumping from their horses. “No!” Arthur shouts and runs off inside, his sword drawn, still covered in its sheath. Merlin follows slowly, numb, into the house.

Servants litter the hall where they fell. Merlin can only stare at the gore before him, so many innocents killed, just for being employed by Kilgharrah. Merlin follows Arthur into the inner courtyard where so many days and nights had been spent with Kilgharrah, Freya, and their friends, so many parties and get-togethers.

Arthur is standing a few feet away and Merlin can see why. A large black winged cat lies on its side, panting as its blood drains from dozens of sword slashes. “Oh, Freya,” Merlin whispers as he walks passed Arthur to kneel beside her. He had been told about the curse placed on her as a child, but he hadn’t known what it did.

As he watches, she shrinks until Freya lies before him, naked and much to pale. Taking off his cloak, Merlin covers her with it, the brown material soaking up the blood quickly, turning black. “Water,” she asks softly. Merlin motions and the pitcher of water floats over with a goblet. Filling the goblet, he holds it to her mouth and she drinks heavily from it.  
  
“Kilgharrah?” Merlin asks softly.

She shakes her head. “There were too many, twenty at least,” she tells him. She looks to her right and Merlin can make out Kilgharrah’s leg poking from behind the trellis.

“Who were they?” Merlin asks.

“Albans, soldiers, no crest. I killed two before they surrounded me,” she says softly and coughs, red staining her lips.

“Fils? Get word to him.”

“His messenger found us. He said the house was being watched,” Merlin says, wiping the blood from her lips.

“Password?” Freya asks.

“The queen’s draca, her only son,” Merlin says. “What does her dead son have to do with this?”

“Not dead…Kilgharrah oath-sworn to watch over him from afar…death threat at birth…hidden away for safety,” she coughs again, more red staining her lips. “What…of…Petit?”

“When the Red Hart rules in Hibernia, the Fisher King will accede,” Merlin says over the knot stopping up his throat as more blood trickles from the corner of her mouth, the light starting to fade from her eyes. “Please don’t go Freya. I can’t do this without you,” Merlin pleads.

She draws in a deep breath, “Tell…Morgana. Trust…Petit. Cenred. Ju…Juliana knows…about Hibernia. She coughs again. “Not Uther…slipping. It’s Morgana…” her voice starts to fade. Her body gives one large shudder, her hands coming up to clutch at his, “Merlin!”

Merlin isn’t sure how much time passes as he holds Freya in his arms. All he knows is that it is Arthur who pulls him away from her limp body. Merlin can’t think, can’t see anything but her lifeless corpse, his heart shattering.

Arthur shakes him and his head snaps limply on his neck, jolting him from his thoughts, “Damn it, Merlin, listen to me,” Arthur hisses. The crack of his hand landing on Merlin’s cheek echoes in the silent courtyard. “Do you understand? These were professionals. They took their dead with them and they will return to finish the job. We must deliver Petit’s message before they do. Do you understand?” Arthur asks, shaking him once more for emphasis.

“Yes,” Merlin croaks out, throat still tight with unshed tears. “Yes, damn you I understand,” Merlin says, jerking from his grip. Shaking his head, he tries to clear his thoughts. “We’ll go straight to the castle and Morgana. If we can’t get to her, we’ll go to Juliana. She knows me and will see me.”

“Good,” Arthur says and grabs him by the arm, tugging him out of the massacre. “Let’s go.”

~*~

Merlin looses track of time, location, everything except his reason for going. They need to get to the castle and inform Morgana. When they get there, Morgana’s Guard turns them away. Merlin could care less about what sort of spectacle they’re making, Arthur in his black tunic and Merlin in his warlock’s cloak.

When the servants of Juliana turn them away, saying she is busy with easing the King’s sleep, Merlin is about ready to explode. Rubbing at his face in frustration, he starts to turn away, trying to recall a patron with enough power to help them.

“Merlin?” Merlin jerks his head up to see Nimueh coming towards them in the hall. Her brow is furrowed, taking in their desperate appearance.

“What is it?” she asks.

Her voice knocks something loose and all the tears he had bottled up start to let loose. “Kilgharrah…Freya...everyone…”

“What?” she asks, shocked.

“Are you in search of the King’s Guard?” she asks.

“No,” Arthur says as Merlin answers, “Yes.”

“Yes,” Merlin says again, remembering his distrust of her. Wiping away the tears, he straightens. “Do you know where they are quartered?”

“I can do better,” she turns to her servant behind her. “Summon the Captain of the King’s Guard. Tell him it is urgent.” The servant bows and runs off. “Come with me. He should be here momentarily.”

Merlin can only glance briefly at her rooms in the castle, before his legs give out onto a chair. “Here, drink this, it will do you good,” she tells him, handing a goblet of strong spirits to Merlin. It burns going down, but it helps warm the numbing cold that has started to take over him. Even Arthur accepts a drink from her, drinking it all in one gulp before setting the goblet down on the table in front of them.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” she asks.

“No,” Merlin says shaking his head. “I mean, I’m not sure. We…we were at Master Saracen’s approving a last minute change to my Mearcung. I’m not sure how long we were there…”

“Almost an hour,” Arthur chimes in. Merlin nods and the world around him spins sickeningly. “We arrived back at the house. There were signs of battle and no one was left alive.”

“Oh Kilgharrah,” she says softly.

There’s a thud and Merlin looks over to see Arthur slumped at the table, the goblet knocked over. Merlin feels unconsciousness pulling at his mind, his eyes growing heavy.

He turns accusing eyes on Nimueh, “No,” he says. He looks down at the goblet and pushes it away, the cup tipping and spilling what was left of the liquid inside it. “No…No!”

“Oh, Merlin, I’m so sorry,” Nimueh murmurs, picking up the knocked over goblets. “I swear I never gave the order for them to be killed. It wasn’t my decision.”

“You knew.” Merlin tries to push himself up, but his joints won’t work. “You used me. Ah, damn it, I told you, I told you of Petit’s messenger!”

“No, I already knew Kilgharrah was awaiting a message from Petit,” she informs him.

“Why then?” Merlin asks even as sleep starts to pull him down. “Why did you tell me about the queen if you already knew? I thought you wanted to find out what it meant.”

She smiles gently at him, smoothing back his hair. “I’ve known for a while about Kilgharrah’s oath and that the little prince is still alive. My second husband was there you see, when it was decided to send the child into hiding. I also knew that Kilgharrah meant to keep his promise. No, I needed to know what he was up to. Why Petit Fils and what does it have to do with the Fisher King?”

“But, why me?” Merlin asks, clawing his way back into wakefulness as far as he can.

“Do I need a reason, warlock?” She asks, running a finger under his eye, like she had done so many years before. “I guess I do, for you. It’s like flushing pheasants. I needed to see what De Porte’s lordlings would do at mention of your name. It wasn’t hard to know one of them was harboring a messenger for your master.”

Merlin can feel tears in his eyes as the pattern starts to come together. “D’Alene.”

“Kilgharrah trained you well. Most warriors think with their sword,” she says with a curl of her lips.

“Not D’Alene.”

“No,” she says walking around the room. Merlin knows the Captain of the Guard will not be coming. “No, D’Alene thinks with more than his sword. After all, he was fostered amongst my kin, House L’Isle.”

She leans over, hands on his shoulders and nothing, not the thought of Freya and Kilgharrah dead in their own blood, or Arthur, dead or unconscious next to him, can stop his magic from reacting to hers. “Don’t,” Merlin pleads, tears running down his face. “Please, don’t.”

Merlin thinks she will do as he asks for once. Then she leans forward and whispers into his ear, “What did the knight mean when I asked what you were looking for? He said no when you said yes. What were you really looking for?”

For a moment, his vision goes blinding gold and he can see everyone’s face: Kilgharrah, Freya, all the servants, and behind it, the scales of the Balance, looming over everything. “I don’t know. Ask Arthur, if you haven’t already killed him,” Merlin grits out through his teeth.

“But you’ve already warned him. The knight would sooner die than betray his oath,” Nimueh whispers, “And besides, I would rather ask you.” The world goes dark around him.

~*~


	5. Part 5

**Part 5**   


Merlin wakes as the cart jolts over a rut in the road.

He keeps his eyes closed, letting his senses pan out. He can feel straw and hard wood under his body, coarse, home spun wool scratches at his cheek from the blanket thrown over him, the cold seeping in, making him shiver. Outside, he can hear the sound of men and horse hooves, muffled by the tarpaulin covering the cart.

That is all he can make out in the semi-darkness before his stomach roils and he scrambles as quickly as he can to the corner of the cart, spewing what little is in his stomach. His head still feels fuzzy, but the sickness lessens.

As he crawls back to the small pile of blankets, he finally notices the blonde hair poking out from underneath them, the limp figure buried under the blankets.

Arthur.

Merlin’s memory returns in a sudden rush and he barely makes it back to the corner to choke up the bile that rises in his throat.

The noise must have finally waken him because Arthur sits up slightly, the blankets sliding down to reveal his haggard face, sharp blue eyes darting around the covered cart as his hand instinctively reaches for his sword which isn’t there. His eyes finally settle on Merlin huddled in a blanket, arms wrapped around his legs.

“Where…are we?” he asks softly, voice cracking, mouth dry from the drug.

“I don’t know,” Merlin whispers, trying to listen and guess how many horses there are, but the beats overlap and cover others. There’s a dozen at least, soldiers as escorts?

“Nimueh…Nimueh l’Isle,” Arthur says, remembering the last thing he recalls before he had passed out.

“Yes,” Merlin croaks out, remembering the betrayal of his body, even now like a dark tide in his blood, the way his magic had reacted to hers. He has to swallow to keep from being sick again.

Arthur is no fool. He was around Kilgharrah long enough to gain some wisdom and understanding dawns on his face. “Did you give her Petit’s message?” he asks.

“No,” Merlin whispers and buries his head in his arms, “No. No. No.”

Merlin can’t see his face, but it must have alarmed Arthur because he feels his hand on his shaking arm, warm on his cold skin. Arthur draws him in, piling blankets over him and then when Merlin still doesn’t stop shaking, wrapping his arms around his thin shoulders. He rocks gently, murmuring meaningless words.

It is true. He had given her every reaction she wanted, every betrayal of flesh and magic he had yielded to her, but he hadn’t given her that. The one thing she truly sought. Not that.

He thinks she had even believed him by the end as she lifted up his heavy head by a handful of hair, smiling cruelly. “I believe you Merlin, I truly do. All you have to do is say the word and I will stop. Just one word and I will end this.” But Merlin had known that if he gave her his signal for a second time, he would have spilled everything else. Merlin had clamped his jaw shut and she had just shaken her head. It hadn’t ended, not for a long time.

Merlin stops shaking eventually and Arthur finally takes in their situation, shoulders stiffening with the awkwardness. Giving one last quick squeeze, he moves a little away, trying to suppress a shudder from the cold. Merlin unwraps one of the blankets from his shoulders and hands it to him. He doesn’t refuse it, covering himself and blowing on his hands.

“So you don’t know what’s happened to us?” he asks in the quiet between them. Merlin shakes his head. “Well, let’s see what we can learn. Flexing his hands once more, Arthur pounds on the side of the cart. “Hey, you out there! Stop the cart.” Merlin can hear voices outside. “Stop the cart and let us out!” Arthur yells out again.

There’s a thump as something heavy, a weapon of some sort, lands against the side and Arthur snatches his hand back from the vibration. A second blow hits the taut canvas and Arthur’s shoulder. He rolls out of the way of the next blow.

“You in the cart keep it down or we’ll beat you like badgers in a sack. Understand?” Someone yells back.

“I am Arthur du Bois, a knight of the Roundtable Brotherhood and you are holding me against my will. You do know this is heresy and a crime punishable by death?”

The weapon, a staff from its reach, strikes the canvas again. “Shut up knight or I aim for the whore.”

Arthur growls, but Merlin grabs his arm, shaking his head to stop him. “Don’t,” Merlin whispers. “Don’t make matters worse. There are at least a dozen, fully trained, mounted soldiers and you are unarmed. If you want to play hero, wait until you can actually win.”

“How can you know this?” he asks harshly, fists clenching and unclenching with his anger.

“Listen, horses and creaking armor. There are four to the front, and behind as well. Two on the sides and I’ve heard a couple come and go, scouts most likely. If they are under Nimueh’s orders, then they’re most likely D’Alene’s men.”

“D’Alene? What’s he got to do with this?” Arthur asks.

“I don’t know. I don’t know, but they’re in it together. They brought down the Escetian throne and had Kilgharrah and Freya killed. He bid for Morgana’s hand. I think he bids for a throne, one way or another. If they are his men, then they are well trained.”

Arthur looks confused, “I thought you were just Kilgharrah’s sorcerer.”

“Did you not pay attention at all while you were in that house?” Merlin asks. He gives a bitter sigh. “Maybe it would have been better to have stayed at the Court. At least then Nimueh would never have been able to use me to flush out Kilgharrah’s allies.”

“Is that what happened?” Arthur says softly. “Merlin this isn’t your fault. Kilgharrah should have known better than to use his bond-servants in such a way.”

“It won’t change things, no matter who you blame. They are all dead and it is my fault, I caused it.” Merlin rubs at his face harshly, wiping away the stinging tears.

“Merlin,” Arthur says softly.

“It’s getting dark,” Merlin says, changing the subject. “Maybe they’ll make camp. We’re heading north; it’s colder than it was in the city.”

“The border,” Arthur says grimly.

“Maybe. They want us quiet while we are still close to the city and the patrols. They might be less cautious once we get far enough away,” Merlin says thinking things through.

“Kilgharrah taught you well,” Arthur says, looking over at Merlin.

“Not well enough,” Merlin replies, his voice tight with unshed tears.

Exhausted, Merlin dozes on and off until a sudden stopping of the cart throws him awake into complete darkness. Night has fallen. There are voices and chains rattling and the back of the cart lowers, forcing Merlin to squint as the sudden brightness from the torch hurts his eyes, making them water.

“Come out slowly, you first, whore,” one of them says loudly. Merlin hears Arthur’s indrawn breath but doesn’t want to draw any attention to Arthur, so he follows their orders, slowly crawling out until they can grab him by his upper arms and pull him the rest of the way out. His legs almost give out after being inactive for so long. The soldiers keep him standing, though they are surely leaving bruises on his arms.

They lead Merlin to a campfire and settle him roughly on a log. One of them hands him a water skin and he guzzles greedily from it.

“You next knight and no quick movements or your little ward here gets it,” the man from before says. Arthur slowly emerges, eyes blazing fury, but his oath comes first and so he remains docile as they lead him on at sword points until he is next to Merlin. Once Arthur is seated, he hands Arthur the waterskin to drink from.

Merlin had guessed about right. There are fifteen soldiers in the camp, all armed and in unmarked gear, no way to identify them. Some attend to the horses and eight of them surround them, keeping them from trying to escape, though where they would run to, Merlin isn’t sure.

“In the name of the Roundtable Brotherhood, I demand to know who you are and why you are holding us captive,” Arthur growls out, fist clenching on his thighs, but he remains seated.

Laughter rings around them.

The man who appears to be the leader of the group snorts as the laughter dies down. “In these lands, the only orders we obey is the order of steel, knight!”

“Then give me mine and I will make you obey me,” Arthur hisses, eyes glaring hatred up at the man.

There are encouraging shouts from the others, but the leader shakes his head. ”While I’m certain it would be an entertaining challenge, I’ve been ordered to keep you alive,” he turns to Merlin, “You whore; do you need to use the latrine?”

Merlin’s cheeks heat at his words, but he nods, ignoring the snickers and predatory eyes following him as he is led by two soldiers to a strand of bushes to relieve himself. Arthur has eight escorts. Back in his seat, they offer Merlin a bowl of stew and he eats it despite the despair that feels like a stone in his stomach. Merlin remains silent and thankfully, Arthur follows his lead. Silence can unnerve people were talking won’t, something Merlin learned at the Court and from Kilgharrah.

When they finish, the leader shakes a flask at them. “You’re to drink some,” he says.

Merlin can guess what is inside it. Arthur tenses beside him like a coiled spring. “No,” he says calmly, his whole body going still. He explodes into action, lunging forward to club the leader in the throat with the back of his hand, sending the man reeling as he struggles to breath. The other’s move in, surrounding Arthur as he fights with his hands and feet, moving like a man possessed.

He might have succeeded if there hadn’t been so many, but as it is, they take his by surprise from behind, dragging him down. The leader has his wind back by then and comes roaring into the fray, kicking a sword away that Arthur is reaching for. “Watch your swords, idiots,” he shouts. Arthur still struggles until the hilt of a dagger is brought down on the back of his head and he falls to his knees, dazed. One of the injured soldiers raises his blade to run Arthur through.

“Stop!” Merlin cries out, thinking frantically now that he has their attention and the man is stopped. He draws in a lung full of air. “If you kill this man, you will be held accountable to Nimueh l’Isle,” Merlin says softly.

The man looks to the leader, who nods and he sheaths his sword. Retrieving the flask, he orders, “Hold him.” They force the flask between Arthur’s teeth, holding his nose until he’s forced to swallow the drugged water. Chocking and spitting, it takes effect quickly and Arthur pitches forward.

“Ties his arms behind him,” the leader orders as he walks up to Merlin. “I hope you will be less trouble,” he says, holding out the flask.

“No, my lord,” Merlin says sarcastically, the words spat out. Taking it, Merlin drinks from it, tasting the drug in the water.

“No need for that tone, whore. I’ve treated you fairly and where you’re going, you’ll wish you were still with us. It’s certainly a strange way to keep someone alive,” he says, but Merlin is already falling forward, the drug dragging him down. Merlin is vaguely aware of being lifted and straw scrapping at his cheek before the darkness envelops him.

Merlin dreams or he thinks he dreams. It could be a memory. Nimueh stands over his limp body, a cruel smile on her lips. “Don’t worry, Merlin, I’d no more kill you than destroy a priceless item,” she whispers. “But you know too much and you are too great a risk to keep around. It may not be much, but I am giving you a chance to stay alive. I’ll even let you keep your knight as protection and let’s hope he does a better job this time around.” She grips his hair and pulls his head up to whisper in his ear, “When this is over and if you are still alive, I will come for you that much I promise.”

~*~

The rest of the journey is a blur of drugged sleep and short moments of lucidity, the leader allowing them only to leave the cart to relieve themselves, eat and drink before drugging them again and shoving them back into the cart.

They travel further north, the terrain roughening and the cold biting into blood and bone so that even drugged, Merlin can feel it. Even then, he is still taken by surprise when they release them into the bright light of day onto a snow covered field deep in the mountains of the north.

Eight men surrounded them, sat atop shaggy horses. Their furs and crude iron weapons are not needed for Merlin to identify just who these men are. He can see just by the blue and black markings on the skin reviled. The one in the center says something in a guttural tongue, tossing a leather pouch at the leader, the coins inside clinking.

They have just been sold as slaves to the Picts.

~*~

From the speed of the transaction, Merlin can only guess that this has been prearranged. The leader hands the coins to his second to count, never taking his eyes off of the Picts. The second nods and the leader cuts the thongs binding Arthur and orders his men to leave their things there. They dump the wrapped bundle to the ground, Arthur’s sword hilt protruding from the top. At a word, they wheel around and leave, the rearguard watching until it is safe and then following their comrades.

The Picts watch everything silently. Arthur watches the retreating soldiers and then glances at the Picts who have turned their eyes on them. “What is it? Do you know what they’ve done?”

Merlin turns to look at the Picts and feels a cold dread sweep through him faster than the cold. “Yes,” he says, “we’ve been sold as slaves to the Picts.”

Merlin’s words are barely out of his mouth before Arthur is rushing for his sword, boots skidding in the snow. The leader laughs and motions to one of his men to intercept Arthur as another spurs his mount to neatly pick up the bundle on the tip of his spear. Arthur doges and runs after the second man who tosses it to his comrade, all laughing as they make sport of Arthur’s efforts.

Surrounding him, they toss the bundle back and forth as Arthur spins around and around, floundering in the snow, his breath coming out in great white clouds of mist. Merlin bears it as long as he can, before he finally shouts out, “Let him be. He doesn’t understand.” The words roll off of his tongue, rusty from disuse, but he remembers the days spent studying this language.

The leader raises dark brows, but says nothing. Arthur on the other hand stops, finally, and stares at Merlin in stunned surprise. The Pict leader waves a hand and his men stop. Maneuvering his horse over, he stares down at Merlin with sharp green eyes.

“Nædre’s men didn’t say you spoke our tongue,” he says aloud.

“They didn’t know,” Merlin replies as he tries to remember what Nædre means. It hits him then. Nædre means snake, which is D’Alene’s family crest, three snakes intertwined. “There are many things they do not know.”

The leader laughs, “That is true. You say he does not understand. Do you?”

Merlin grimaces, but slowly bends his knees, kneeling in the freezing snow before his new master. “I understand…my lord.”

“Good. Hervis,” the man calls out, “Bring my slave a cloak. These southerners, such frail creatures. I don’t want him to die before he has had a chance to warm my bed.”

They laugh, but Merlin ignores them. Merlin accepts the cloak from Hervis, shrugging into the deep folds and letting out a silent sigh as it warms him. “Thin, but hot blood,” he comments with a jeer. Merlin doesn’t have any time to say anything before the man is lifting him to sit behind him on the saddle. “I am Hoel Peredur. Tell your companion to not be stupid.”

Wheeling his horse, he turns to a still staring Arthur. “Don’t do this, Arthur. They won’t kill us if we comply. They value their slaves,” Merlin hisses, trying to keep Arthur from doing something stupid.

“No,” he barks out, hand slicing through the air, eyes blazing and nostrils flaring in anger. “I failed you with Nimueh and with D’Alene’s men, but I swear I won’t fail you again, Merlin. Not here,” he says. “His sword is in reach. Give it to me and I can get us out of here.”

Merlin doesn’t look, but he can feel the sword digging into his arm. Arthur is right, it is in reach. But they are alone in this frozen wasteland. Even armed, Arthur is outnumbered and they are mounted. Taking in a deep breath, he turns hard eyes on Arthur. “I have lived in servitude all my life and I will not die for your damn oath,” Merlin hisses. Merlin touches Hoel’s shoulder. “He will not yield. He is too proud.”

Turning shrewd eyes over Arthur and his men, he barks out, “Bring him and be sure he doesn’t hurt himself on your spears.” His men laugh as they start to draw close to Arthur.

It takes all seven to take Arthur down. Merlin forces himself to watch it all.

Arthur fights like a beast cornered, bellowing his rage as they circle and surround him. For a while, Merlin can see nothing but limbs and horses. Arthur wrenches one of the spears free from one of the Picts. Merlin’s heart thuds loudly in his chest as Arthur fights and he wonders if maybe Arthur can pull it off. But he’s never fought with a spear before and can only keep the Picts at bay as he thrusts and stabs at them.

“He looks like a girl, but he fights like a man. Like two men!” Hoel comments to Merlin.

“He is trained to it from childhood,” Merlin murmurs into his ear. “Those men betrayed him, the man you call Nædre. Make him your friend and he might be willing to fight with you against him.”

It’s a risk, but Merlin needs to take it. Hoel glances back at Merlin. “Nædre is our ally. He pays us gold to raid your villages.”

Merlin schools his features to keep the shock from showing. “A traitor for an ally is an enemy-in-waiting,” Merlin quotes solemnly, remembering the Pictish writing he had read so many years ago. Hoel remains silent and half of the Picts dismount to wrestle Arthur to the ground, prying the spear from his hand.

“What shall we do with him?” One of them asks.

Hoel thinks on it for a moment. “Tie his hands and let him run behind your horse, Gal. We’ll tire the fight out of him before we reach the steading, this wolf-cub.”

It is done quickly and Arthur is dragged up and tied to the horse. As it moves forward, he is jerked forward, starting out at a walk and ending up at a run. The sky is bright blue and Merlin can only stare in pity at Arthur as he clings awkwardly to Hoel’s back. Arthur flounders in the deeper drifts, losing his footing and going down to be dragged for a few yards before the Pict stop and allow him to gain his feet again. His blue eyes blaze hatred at all there, including Merlin.

 _“Hate me and live, knight,”_ Merlin thinks.

The sun is nearly to the horizon by the time they reach their destination. The steading is a small grouping of buildings, about twenty in all. The largest stands in the center with smoke billowing from its huge chimney. By the time they slow Merlin is shivering so hard he’s about to fall off the horse.

The doors of the main hall swing open, people flooding out to greet them with cheers and shouts of joy. Hoel helps Merlin down from the horse and shoves him towards the mass of Picts. “See my new bed-slave,” Hoel calls out with a grin and a lewd look at Merlin.

Hands clutch and grab at Merlin as blue and black whorled faces pass before Merlin in a dizzying blur. Merlin struggles free, looking for Arthur. He is sunk next to the horse he is tied to, exhaustion the only thing keeping him down. His chest heaves with each clouded breath and his hair is a frozen mess where the snow has melted and frozen again in his locks. He glares at Merlin through his fringe.

“Arthur,” Merlin mumbles, reaching for him. Arthur jerks away, spitting at his feet and Merlin feels like crying. Merlin allows Hoel to pull him away and lead him towards the doors of the building.

“A proper wolf-cub, eh? Let him sleep with the hounds then,” Hoel says aloud.

A group of laughing young men goes forward, bringing Arthur down and dragging him away towards another building. Merlin can’t follow Arthur’s path for long as Hoel spins him around and drags him into the great hall, the heat flowing over him.

“Shame on you, Hoel Peredur,” a woman exclaims. Strong, but gentle hands cup Merlin’s face, turning him this way and that. Kind blue eyes stare out at him, blue lines marking her face. “The poor things half frozen and terrified to death and you’re bragging about bed rights! No wonder you’ve not been able to find any women to warm it before.”

Hoel looks down, shuffling his feet, “Oh, Shera, you know I wouldn’t need to go raiding if you’d have me,” Hoel says, looking up with an impish gleam. “Besides, who knows what this little one can teach me and you’ll be sorry for the loss of it.”

“Not tonight, you won’t. A warm bowl of soup and a place by the fire it what you need, isn’t it?” she asks kindly, looking at Merlin.

“He can’t understand you, Shera,” one of the other woman points out.

“I can understand,” Merlin says, voice struggling to be heard. He kneels, still shivering, to kiss her hand, “Thank you, my lady.”

Shera snatches her hand back, looking uncomfortable. “We’ll have none of that here. We’re not savages; we don’t make our slaves crawl on their knees.” Filing that information away for later, Merlin watches as she claps her hands and a bowl of steaming soup appears, despite grumbling.

In no shape to resist, Merlin allows Shera to guide him towards the fire, sinking to his knees before it gratefully. Sipping from the bowl, Merlin lets his eyes rove. Hoel stands a head taller than most of the people there, his voice loud and booming.

Shera stands beside him, what power she wields settling over her like a cloak. The celebrations start and the mead flows freely, men and women alike drinking down the liquid in great quantities. Merlin watches beside the fire, numb inside despite its heat and thinks about Arthur, alone in the freezing cold. For a moment, he contemplates sneaking out and freeing Arthur, the both of them trying to escape, despite the distance and freezing cold. He knows, though, that neither of them would make it, even if Arthur could fight his way through everyone here.

Merlin is jerked from a light doze by a warm hand on his shoulder. Shera looks down at him and with a scolding look at Hoel, leads Merlin to her room. Setting up a small pallet, Merlin falls gratefully into it, letting sleep claim him and carry him under.

~*~

Thus begins Merlin slavery under Hoel Peredur, Pictish chieftain of one of the southernmost steadings held by the tribe Ar— under the aegis, Merlin learns, of the great Wigfruma, war-chief, Selises Arrœk, Arrœk the Blessed.

Merlin is roused from sleep the next morning and shown, to his relief, the bath house. Shera shows him where the wood is kept and how to fill and heat the water, her surprise at his ignorance clear on her face. Merlin may have been a servant all his life, but he was privileged and it shows in his clumsy attempts to get the bath started. The tub isn’t much, but the water is hot and Merlin enjoys it, despite the lack of privacy as Shera and the other woman sit and watch him, exclaiming over this and that.

“What is this?” she asks, pointing to his unfinished Mearcung on his back. Merlin answers, translating it as best he can and what it meant to be a servant of the Balance. “And these?” she asks, pointing to the marks left over from Nimueh’s hands. “Are they part of your homage to the Balance?”

Merlin shakes his head, “No, they are not part of giving homage.” Merlin keeps from having to answer further questions by dumping a bowl full of water over his head, letting the heated water wash over him.

Merlin’s tone must have tipped her off because Shera shoos the other woman out, handing him a set of clothing. It is too big for him, hanging off of his thin frame. Shera smiles at him, “We will have it brought in later,” she tells him.

Washed and dressed in clean clothing, Merlin feels more himself than he has since leaving the tattooists. Taking a deep breath, he follows Shera from the bath house back into the great hall. It is busy, the center of the steading. There are outlying fields, held by Hoel’s fengels, his warriors, and farmed by their ceorl, a sort of bond-servant who farm and pay a tithe for protection.

Hoel isn’t as bad as Merlin had thought he would be, or more importantly, he could have been worse. He is a fair man and with the Pictish elaborate system of law, he sees to his people, hearing complaints twice a week. When he rules against one of his fengels for the unlawful stealing of a yearling calf, the fengel give the reparation without grumbling.

Hoel is gone most of the day, to where Merlin doesn’t know. His fengels are there though, honing weapons and inspecting armor, rubbing bear fat into leathers to keep the melted snow from soaking them. They send leers his way, but don’t come near so Merlin assumes that he isn’t a slave to be passed around. He is Hoel’s property and his men respect that.

While the men sit around joking and telling tales, the women work tirelessly to keep the steading running. Tending the hearth, preparing food, cleaning up after the men, mending, spinning, sewing, they do it all with a well-practiced ease. And presiding over them is Shera, directing them with a no-nonsense tone while she herself worked alongside the women.

Merlin asks her if there are any duties for him to do and she shakes her head. “That is for Hoel to decide,” she tells him softly.

“Am I allowed to leave the hall?” Merlin asks, thinking of Arthur still out there. She shakes her head sadly and Merlin knows that if she had power, she would have let him, but she couldn’t cross Hoel, not in this. So Merlin is confined to the hall.

The one who gave him his cloak, Hervis, seems to be the most daring. He comes close enough and starts to sing bawdy songs that would have had him blushing if he hadn’t been so numb inside. Hoel comes back on one of the last ones, cheeks red with the cold.

As Hoel takes his cloak off, Merlin sees Nimueh’s collar resting snuggly around his throat. Merlin can only stare at it. He’d forgotten all about it, that he had been wearing it still when he’d left for the tattooists. It seems Nimueh’s gift and her hold over Merlin is still following him, even to this cold wasteland.

The others are admiring it as the firelight glints off of the woven metal. He spies Merlin beside the fire and comes walking up grinning. Merlin rises and bows to him automatically. “I’m starved,” he says loudly and pulls Merlin close to places a sloppy kiss on his lips before pulling back. His muscled arm circles Merlin’s waist, lifting him with ease. “Look at this. There’s nothing to him. Are all southerners this thin? No wonder they hate the cold.” His words are met with roaring laughter.

“Put the child down, Hoel,” Shera says, coming up from the kitchen with a ladle still in her hand.

“I’ll put him down, on his back,” he declares and his men laugh again. He settles Merlin on his feet again before leaving another sloppy kiss. “There, what do you think of that, southerner?”

Merlin has never hated any patron before. He’d always had consent. But he hates this man who will take him because of an ownership given by betrayal. “I am my lord’s servant,” Merlin bites out.

Either he doesn’t hear the sarcasm, or he is in too high of spirits for it to affect him, because he just grins at Merlin’s words, “And a damn fine one at that.” He grabs Merlin then, slinging him over his shoulder like he weighs nothing. “If I’m not back in two hours, send in food and drink,” he calls back to his men as he carries Merlin from the room.

Hoel’s room is just a timber box with a bed covering in furs. A small fireplace on the opposite wall provides heat. Merlin hangs helplessly from the man’s shoulder as he is carried into the room and set down. He notices the pile of Hoel’s leather and metal armor piled behind a wooden shield in a corner as the man brings the fire up, heat filling the room.

“There, that should be enough to heat you up,” Hoel says turning around to eye Merlin. “I know what you are, that you are trained to whore yourself for your Balance. Nædre’s men told me so I would buy. Of course it would be easier to just take one of the village women on a raid. We’ve done it before,” he says to Merlin.

“I know,” Merlin says softly. “What is it that you want?” he asks.

“Want? I want everything,” he says aloud with a wide grin.

It hits Merlin then that this is happening. That he can’t stop it and his magic goes crazy. It tries to rush out, strike out at this man that will take him and when it comes up against a barrier, he chokes slightly. He can’t use his magic. He’s cut off from it. He can feel the spell that Nimueh placed on him and wants to cry.

Merlin does the only thing he can do. He gives Hoel what he wants. He doesn’t give him everything. That would be stupid. But he gives Hoel more than he knew what he is asking for. Merlin has never truly known what it was to serve the Balance, but now, as he lays wrapped in his master’s arms as the man dozes after having taken Merlin, he can understand it.

He has nothing left to live for with Kilgharrah and Freya dead and Arthur despising him. All he has left is righting the Balance and getting revenge for all that Nimueh has done. He clenches his fist and lets the anger and betrayals take root inside him.

~*~

In the hall, Hoel’s men hoot and holler and Merlin endures it, ignoring them as best he can. Shera comes over soon after. “His mouth is large, but he means well,” she says softly. Merlin looks up at her and says nothing. Something in his eyes must tip her off because she leaves him alone, heading back into the kitchen.

He isn’t sure what they sing about, but he doesn’t want to. He sits quietly close to the fire; arms around his knees just staring at the dancing flames, letting the world fade away. Slowly, Merlin’s ears pick up the low mutterings of the fengels who think he isn’t listening. They’re saying how Hoel should give him to Selises Arrœk at the Folcgemot, the gathering of all the tribes, to win favor with their leader.

This isn’t the first time he has heard Arrœk’s name and Merlin wonders what sort of man he is if even Hoel speaks of him in awed tones. Merlin’s heart drops as he thinks of Arthur, out in the cold. He hopes he is alive because he doesn’t think he can survive this without his knight.

Kilgharrah and Freya come to mind, their nobility and honesty, his love for them, and their eyes forever dimmed. He has to bury his head in his knees, shoulders heaving with great wracking sobs, hoping to muffle the sounds. Around him, the Picts grow silent.

Merlin lifts his head, rubbing at his tears furiously. “You do not know me,” he says hoarsely in Albion, their faces uncomprehending. “If you think that me yielding is weakness, you will soon learn.” He knows he must look a sight, his eyes wet and red rimmed, his blocked magic swirling under the surface reflected in his eyes.

They still say nothing, not understanding, but curiosity still evident. He spies a crude lute next to one of the men, “May I borrow your instrument?” Merlin asks in Pictish.

They give it over wordlessly and Merlin holds it in his hand easily. It has been a while, but he still knows how to play one. Tuning it, he looks up and sings. It is an ancient ballad of a man betrayed and far from home, trying to find his way back. It has no official name and it doesn’t translate well into Pictish, but Merlin thinks the people understand what he is singing, even if his voice is half choked with tears.

As he sings, he thinks of all that was, of Freya and Kilgharrah, finally saying goodbye to them. He thinks of Arthur and Gwaine and Juliana and Gaius and Alice, of Master Saracen and Uriens de Isidore and Petit Fils, and the Court and Gwen. Everything that is “home” and so far away.

As the last note dies, the room is quiet, only the sound of the wind and the crackle of the fire to be heard. Then suddenly, they burst into applause. Hoel face is nearly split in two by his proud grin. Merlin hadn’t been expecting this. Shaking his head, he passes the lute back to its owner.

Merlin doesn’t resist Hoel when the man steers him through the crowd, his large hand on Merlin’s lower back. Hoel is young and eager; Merlin can feel the evidence when his master brushes up behind him, his cock hard and straining in his breeches. Merlin’s heart drops at the answering tingle of magic inside him as it and his body react to the small amount of magic gathering around Hoel. Merlin wants to cry again, but he is empty now. Instead, he follows obediently to his own personal hell.

~*~

As the embers burn low, Merlin lays in the bed, Hoel snoring behind him. Hoel had fallen asleep shortly after he had finished with Merlin. It was still strange to be sleeping with someone else in a bed after so long by himself.

Hoel doesn’t even stir when Merlin moves his arm off of him. Merlin knows there is no lock on the door and it would be so simple to escape. But he also fears the snow and the journey as well as capture. Even if Hoel and his men didn’t come after them, which he knew they would, he doubts they would survive very long.

This casual trust though has its possibilities. He doesn’t like it and success is low, but he has to try.

The next morning, Merlin serves Hoel with all the skill he had learned in the Court. His master seems pleased by it and Merlin hopes that he is in a generous mood when he asks him to visit Arthur.

Hoel eyes him shrewdly before answering, “No. Let him stew in the kennels a while longer. He will soon learn to heel at the hand that feeds him.” Merlin lets the matter go and Hoel pats him on the head before leaving to do whatever it is he does.

Merlin is left idle again. The women throw him glances, most neutral, some though are envious of his place. Merlin would trade with them if he could. He would do it in a heartbeat and he knows these women would not understand why.

Wanting something to do, Merlin asks for parchment and a quill and ink. When they just stare back at him, not understanding what he is asking, Merlin remembers that the Pict have no written language besides runic symbols for their rituals. Why would they have need of such things? So Merlin makes due with a clean swept table and a piece of burnt wood.

The women become curious with his scratches and when he explains what he is doing, translating songs into Pictish, they volunteer their own. The only Pictish songs Merlin had ever heard is war songs, but these are different. They speak of love and the harvest, of raising children and the loss of loved ones.

That night, Merlin has Alban and Pictish verses alike to sing. Hoel keeps him close, a hand always on Merlin’s person somewhere as he beams at his slave. The night follows like the one before.

The next morning, Merlin again asks to visit Arthur. Denied, Merlin waits and asks again the next night.

“When he has calmed, I will show him kindness,” Hoel says, drawing Merlin forward. “Why do you persist? Have I not pleased you well enough? Your cries say differently,” he says with a grin, looking around the room.

“That is the gift from…from my…gods,” Merlin finally says, trying to describe the Balance in a way they can understand. “I bear their mark,” Merlin says, pointing to his eyes.

“Like stars in the sky,” Hoel muses, pulling Merlin forward to kiss him on both eyelids.

“Yes,” Merlin says, pulling away. “But I am bound to Arthur du Bois by his oath to his gods,” Merlin says, exaggerating. “If I may not see him, our gods will turn away in disfavor and such gifts as I have will disappear,” Merlin says and then pauses to see how Hoel will react. “It is a matter of pride, my lord. He would rather die than answer to your call. But if I can show him that I have yielded to you and still the gods favors me, perhaps he might see truth.” Merlin mentally crosses his fingers and hopes Hoel will believe this lie.

Hoel seems to think for a moment before nodding. “All right. You may see the boy that he may have peace with his gods. But tell him that if he doesn’t yield soon, I will have no use for him. He eats more than the hounds he is with and is of less use. Hervis, Van, take him to see the wolf-cub and make sure he doesn’t hurt him.”

The trip to the kennels is short, the snow trodden flat and solid. Still, the two men keep steadying hands on Merlin as they make their way over; the cloak Merlin has is warm and keeps most of the cold wind off of him.

The dogs are contained in a fenced off area, a low roof angled to keep the wind off of them and provide shelter during the snow falls. Hervis walks over and bangs on the roof and inside, the sound of chains can be heard over the sound of the dogs.

When Arthur emerges, Merlin can only stare, heart clenching.

The knight looks awful. His hair is a matted mess, hay and other things tangled up in it. His eyes glare through his tangled fringe as they stare at Merlin. A manacle around his neck binds him and Merlin can see where it has chafed the skin raw. He sits in the pen hunched over, ignoring the dogs around him.

“Let me see him,” Merlin demands. Van looks dubious but still opens the gate to let Merlin through. Merlin walks through and crouches in front of Arthur. “Arthur,” he says softly in Alban. “I need to talk to you.”

“Traitor!” Arthur growled out, grabbing up a handful of fetid snow and flinging it at Merlin. “Pictish speaking whore! Get away from me!”

Merlin dodges most of the snow and wipes the rest off his face. “You call me traitor? Do you want to know a traitor? Valiant d’Alene is paying the Picts to raid the border villages. How do you like that?”

Arthur, who had turned away to grab more snow, turns back, eyes still hard, but not as angry. “Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know, but it would allow him to gather both the Camelot and Escetian armies under one banner. He even asked for Dillon’s Men. I heard him.”

The tension in Arthur slowly lessens. “You really think he seeks to overthrow the crown.”

Merlin shakes his head sadly. “No, I think he’s trying to overthrow the five kingdoms. And with Escetia already in turmoil, only Camelot stands at full strength to protect the other kingdoms from the Picts. Look, Arthur. I could never make it through these lands. But you can. Hoel keeps no chain on me. I can sneak out tonight and free you. I can get you clothing and arms and a tinderbox at most, and you can escape. Get back to Camelot and tell them what D’Alene plans.”

“What about you?” Arthur asks.

“I don’t matter. Besides, Hoel plans on giving me to Arrœk at the Folcgemot. I’ll do what I can and learn what I can, but you have the chance to escape and must take it.”

“No,” Arthur says, shaking his head. “If you are no traitor, then I can’t leave you. My oath is to you, not the crown.”

“If you would serve me, than do this, Arthur,” Merlin hisses.

Arthur shakes his head, “You don’t understand. My oath has nothing to do with thrones and crowns. A knight is the perfect companion and if you are true…I cannot abandon you, Merlin.”

Merlin sighs, shoulders slumping. “Fine,” Merlin grits out harshly, his voice startling Arthur enough that he jerks his head up, the chain rattling. “If you are so determined to serve me, than do it! You are worthless to me chained up out here like a dog,” Merlin nearly yells at him.

Arthur glares at him, but swallows his pride finally, “How may I serve then?”

Merlin can feel the two Picts eye on them, but he knows they can’t understand his words so he ignores them. “First, you must become a good slave. Make yourself useful. Cut wood, fetch water, anything they ask of you that is needful. Hoel already has half a mind to slay you as a waste of food. Second, you will learn Pictish.” Merlin jabs his finger into Arthur’s chest, making him wince. “You will serve your lord and win his trust and make yourself a gift fit for princes because if you don’t, Hoel will give me to Arrœk and kill you on the spot. If you can do this, then I swear, when the time is right, I will make my escape with you. Will you do as I ask?”

Arthur stares at Merlin for a long time before bowing his head, “Yes.”

“Good,” Merlin says softly. He turns to those waiting. “He has come to understand his position,” Merlin calls out. “He is willing to learn the language so that he might understand his master and serve him. I will teach him.”

The two men shrug, “He will stay here until he has proven his worth.”

Nodding, Merlin turns back to Arthur, “Listen well. This is the word for master…”

~*~

Arthur, to his credit, learns quickly. Hervis and Van become his permanent escort on Merlin’s trips out to tutor Arthur in the language of the Picts. Hoel turns an indulgent eye on the whole thing, willing to let Merlin “civilize” Arthur. He had paid good money for Arthur.

Through the kindness of Shera and some of the other women, Merlin smuggles a few items to Arthur. He gets him a worn but still good jerkin, and rags to wrap around his hands and feet in his boots. Even a badly cured bear hid that stinks but still keeps him warm.

Of course, the dogs tear it to shreds and Arthur is bitten while trying to get it back. Van, swearing him to silence, gives Merlin some ointment from a village witch. It smells like any ointment that Merlin has used, strong with herbs, so Merlin uses it and Arthur’s arm heals without getting infected.

Two weeks pass before Hoel ventures out to check on their progress. Merlin, having seen Arthur progress himself, deems him ready to take this test. They rehearse tirelessly over simple greetings and phrases until Arthur can speak them smoothly without his tongue tripping him up.

It is midafternoon and the light is dimming as the sun heads towards the horizon. To the north, clouds build, threatening snow. Hoel takes Merlin with him when he and his fengels decide to stroll over to the kennel to visit Arthur. As they passed a skin of mead around, Merlin waits anxiously, heart in his throat.

Arm around Merlin’s shoulders, he calls out for Arthur. Arthur emerges from the shadow of the roof, dogs swirling around him. For a moment, Arthur pauses at the sight of Merlin under Hoel’s arm, but he forces himself on, face expressionless.

“So, southerner, what have you learned? Can you speak like a proper man now?” Hoel asks, tugging Merlin closer.

“I serve my master,” Arthur says in accented Pictish, bowing to the man as a knight, one arm crossed over his chest.

“So the wolf-cub can do more than growl,” Hoel jests. “If I release you from the kennel, what will you do?”

“I will do as my master commands,” Arthur says, bowing again.

“Will you now?” Hoel says, looking at Arthur shrewdly. “Well there is water to be fetched and wood to be chopped and Shera always needs help. But how do I know you will keep your word? How do I know you will not kill us in our sleep or try to escape? I will not waste men to have a guard on you constantly.”

Arthur turns to Merlin in desperation when he can’t understand Hoel’s word. “He wants your word that you will not try to escape or attack the steading,” Merlin translates.

Nodding, Arthur straightens, “Tell him this. So long as he keeps you safe, I will protect and serve this steading as if it were my own. I will do anything he asks except turn on my own people unless they are D’Alene’s men. This I swear on my oath.”

Merlin translates slowly, allowing Arthur to follow and nod along. Hoel scratches at his bearded chin. “He hates Nædre greatly. Mayhap he will choose vengeance over his oath. What say you, will he honor his oath?”

“My lord, he is bound by his oath. Death would bow before us before he broke it,” Merlin says, looking between Arthur and Hoel.

“It seems you have tamed the wolf-cub where others have failed.” He turns to look at Arthur. “I will give you one more night here to bid farewell to your new friends and in the morning, we shall see what you can do,” he says.

Arthur seems to get the gist of his words and he bows. “I will do as commanded,” he murmurs softly. He settles onto the ground, legs crossed, and his eyes on Merlin.

“Will he stay there all night?” Hoel asks as he leads Merlin away.

“I don’t know,” Merlin says and can fee Arthur’s gaze on him all the way back to the main hall. “Maybe.”

Hoel roars with laughter. “What a pair you two make, both fit for princes. Everyone will be jealous of what I have, even Arrœk might.” Merlin glances back once and sure enough, Arthur is still there, blue eyes watching Merlin leave.

~*~

Hoel is a man of his word and the next morning, Arthur’s chains are struck. Van takes Merlin there to watch. Freedom is a heady thing and Arthur stands there, shaking and Merlin knows he wants to strike out. Arthur schools himself though and forces himself to bow.

“Let’s see if he spoke truthfully. Van, you will stay with him. Let him do a ceorl’s work, but give him no tools that could be used as weapons. If he needs to break the ice, let him use his hands. When he’s proved himself, maybe then we’ll let him chop wood.”

“I’ll watch him like a hawk,” Van says, saluting his leader. Arthur is on his best behavior the whole day hauling buckets of water to refill the cisterns of the great hall tirelessly. Van follows behind, enjoying the easy work of watching Arthur work.

The women stare, finally getting a good look at Arthur. Even filthy and stinking of the kennels, he is still undeniably handsome. “He must be a prince in your land,” one of the women says to Merlin.

“No…he’s not,” Merlin says slowly, watching Arthur trudge back towards the stream, breath steaming in the air. Freya had told him about the prince still being alive, but she hadn’t told him where the prince had been hidden.

And here was Arthur, no parents, left with the Round Table Brotherhood as a baby. He knew that the Bois Family was an off shooting branch of the Royal Bois line, distant cousins or some such that had died out some years ago. It would be so simple to give a child, a prince in hiding, an old family name that few even remembered, let alone knew about unless they studied family histories. It seemed an impossible idea, yet it fit so well.

Shaking himself, Merlin turns away. He can’t be worrying about Arthur’s parentage. They have bigger worries at the moment. He shoves the thoughts to the back of his mind.

Hoel and his men return triumphant from the hunt soon after. In a good mood, Hoel calls for a feast and the men get roaring drunk. But not drunk enough to forget to chain Arthur to the wall by the fire. Arthur’s exhausted though and Merlin doubts he would have fled, even if he wanted to.

The days pass by as winter days often do, slow and cold. Arthur continues to be trustworthy to Hoel, doing all that is asked of him. Merlin and Shera conspire together and between them, they shove Arthur into the bath room to finally clean him up.

They empty the tub twice, Arthur is that filthy. If Merlin had thought his first bath had been public, Arthur’s is worse, all the women from the youngest to the oldest crowd around the door to get a peek at Arthur.

One of the women offers Arthur some clothing of her brother, killed in a raid some months before the two of them had arrived. Arthur seems on the verge of panic as his knight’s clothing is pilled, as if for disposal.

Touching him on the shoulder, Merlin leans down to say softly, “I’ll wash and mend them.” Arthur doesn’t say anything, but his look is grateful. It is all that Arthur has left of home.

Arthur smiles and says loudly in Pictish, “I would thank you, but I’ve heard of your sewing abilities.”

“Prat,” Merlin says but doesn’t refute it. He would never make it in the world sewing, that’s for sure despite Shera’s patience.

“I’ll mend them,” Leda says softly, blushing at the smile Arthur sends her way.

Eventually, the women grow tired and head back to their work. “Shera, he needs to be groomed. Do you have a comb I could borrow?” Merlin asks, turning to the woman.

She brings him a comb and Merlin settles on a stool behind Arthur. Slowly, he works out the knots and tangles until his hair is smooth once more. It sooths Merlin and brings back days with Freya, brushing and braiding her hair for her.

Forcing the sudden tears away, Merlin stands. “There, good as new,” he tells Arthur. He hands Arthur a towel to dry himself with and then the clothing brought.

“Thank you,” Arthur says, rubbing at his neck slightly. Merlin just shrugs and ushers him out of the bath house and into the main hall. Taking up the yoke, Arthur sets about refilling the cisterns that he had emptied.

That night, Hoel comments on Arthur’s clean appearance. “He is pleasing to the women. Is he trained as you are, to please in bed?”

Merlin shakes his head, “No, he is trained to be a warrior and a companion.”

“I please you and yet you say it is because of the gift of your gods,” Hoel says suddenly, changing the topic.

“A gift and a curse,” Merlin says softly.

Hoel waves his hand, “All gifts from gods are like that.” He looks down at Merlin. “I had thought you only said that to see the boy?”

Merlin winces inwardly. He’d forgotten that Hoel is cleverer than he looks. “What I said is true,” Merlin says. He’s not sure if it is or not though. Could his magic be taken from him?

“So you are saying I would not be pleasing to other southerners?” Hoel asks, leaning on one elbow as he looks down at Merlin.

Merlin looks up at him and finally decided to risk it, “Do you want me to answer truthfully?”

“Yes,” Hoel demands.

Remembering D’Cote, Merlin answers, “My lord makes love like he’s hunting a boar, a heroic act, but not necessarily pleasing to women or men.”

Hoel scrunches up his brow as he thinks this over. “You could teach me,” he finally says.

Merlin forces a bitter laugh from rising. He’d be dead if he hadn’t been pleasing to Nimueh. “If that is what you want, I will do as asked,” Merlin says. Merlin can see Hoel is thinking ahead to when he gives Merlin to Arrœk. He’d already asked for Shera’s hand three times and after Merlin, she might just finally give in to him.

“You will begin teaching me tomorrow,” he says with a grin. He turns serious quickly, “And if you speak of this, I will send your friend back to the kennels.” Satisfied with his decision, Hoel turns over and goes to sleep. Merlin stays awake most of the night wondering just what exactly he’s gotten himself into.

~*~

Merlin and Arthur tread a fine line as the days turn into weeks. There is still some time until the Folcgemot. They fall into their rolls easier each day and they have to remind themselves that there is more to them than this easy obedience. They become complacent and forget who exactly their masters are…until the next raid on the border villages.

The men rise early, rousing everyone and readying for the journey. Wrapped in furs and leather armor, they carry only a wooden shield. Some have axes or short swords. Most have the short spears they favor.

The horses are brought around and the men ready, mounting up. Merlin and Arthur stand off to the side, sick with guilt and helplessness. Arthur trembles with suppressed rage and turns and walks away before he can do something stupid.

Merlin just stands there, frozen as Hoel walks over, grinning at Merlin. He seems to have forgotten who exactly Merlin is as he says, “A kiss for luck as I ride into battle.”

Merlin can only stare blankly at him as the man starts to draw closer. The next instant, Arthur is between him and Hoel, shoulders still shaking, but his hands held loosely at his side showing he is passive at the moment. “My lord, allow him one ounce of pride,” Arthur growls out.

Merlin can’t see Arthur’s face, but he can see Hoel’s and the man’s eyes narrow before he turns and strides out calling for his men to ride out. Merlin can only watch them leave as the numbness from before creeps over him.

They arrive back soon after the sun is completely down, their faces red with cold and grinning with triumph. The pickings had been meager: some sacks of grain, and other food stuffs set aside to tide the cold. Many boast of how many Albans they had slain and when they glance at Merlin grow silent. It doesn’t matter, the deed has already been done and their small twinges of guilt will not undo anything.

From what Merlin can piece together, they had run into some soldiers, Escetian by their main banner. There had been a second banner, blue with a rearing horse. They weren’t D’Alene’s men then. Two of the fengels had fallen, one of them Van, before they had slain half the troop before escaping back into the mountains through the falling snow.

Hoel is not so mindful of Merlin’s feelings this time around and as the celebrations come to a climax, Merlin has to keep Arthur from doing something stupid when Hoel is so drunk. Hoisting Merlin over his shoulder, Hoel marches off to his room to cheers from his men.

It is neither a night of lessons or gentleness and Merlin leaves Hoel snoring loudly in his bed, uncaring of the consequences of his departure. Someone had remembered to secure Arthur to the wall and for a second, Merlin thinks he is asleep as well, amongst all the sleeping fengels. But his eyes open upon Merlin’s approach, question clear in his eyes.

“I couldn’t stay there,” Merlin admits.

“I know,” Arthur says and scoots over, making room for Merlin. Merlin settles on the rushes next to him. Curling up along his side, he rests his head on Arthur’s chest, staring into space.

“Arthur, you need to leave,” Merlin says quietly.

“I can’t,” Arthur says just as softly, but the arm he has around Merlin’s shoulders tightens. “I can’t…I won’t leave you here.”

“Damn you and your stupid oath,” Merlin hisses, hands clenching in Arthur’s tunic, nails biting into flesh. Arthur doesn’t even flinch. He still holds Merlin tightly as his shoulders heave, his face buried into Arthur’s chest.

Eventually though, the tears run out and Merlin pulls back slightly, breath hitching. “How can D’Alene stand it, sending his men to die against the Picts that he pays to raid?” Arthur asks softly.

“A few can die and hundreds will rally to his banner for their kingdom’s safety. He probably blames the losses on Uther, for not sending more troops, for denying him Dillon’s Men. He’s building an army to create an empire. I don’t understand how he can do it, but I get the why. What I want to know is why Hoel does not fear him?” Merlin asks, looking up at Arthur.

“Because D’Alene pays him,” Arthur says.

Merlin shakes his head, “No, there’s more to it than that. He seems unconcerned about them, like he knows something they don’t know. Plaine said it before; the Picts have found a leader who thinks.”

Arthur swears softly at Merlin’s words. They both are silent, lost in thought. Eventually, Merlin sleeps, pressed against Arthur who has his arm around him still. He wakes to the fire nothing but smoldering embers and weak sunlight streaming through the cracks in the building. Leda’s anxious face stares at him and he realizes it is her tugging on his sleeve that roused him.

“You must go, they will wake soon,” she whispers to him.

Merlin jerks up, realizing that he had spent the night with Arthur. Turning, he can see Arthur is awake as well, eyes open. Squeezing his hand, Merlin stands quickly, brushing off the dirt from his breeches. Following Leda, he maneuvers around the still sleeping men and slips silently back into Hoel’s bed. The man just grunts in his sleep, pulling Merlin closer. Merlin lays wide awake, hating the man.

~*~

Things settle back down, but it’s not as comfortable as it was. With the reminder of their station, Arthur and Merlin are more wary of falling back into their routine. Back in Camelot, the first snows would have started with the cold halting trade and leisure. But out here in the northern mountains, they are literally snowbound.

While the women and cerols have work to do, Hoel and his fengels are idle and idle men are easily bored. For a while, they make do with telling stories and tales: tales of dragons and giants, warriors and gods and ones growing more popular by the day, tales of Selises Arrœk’s rise.

Many wondrous things seem to have happened to the man. After his mother died in child-birth, a she-bear, dark as night with a white star on her forehead, came to the steading door and when it was opened for her, she walked to the baby Selises and lay down beside him to allow him to nurse.

He travelled the land as a young man. Through diplomatic means or through brute force, he soon had all the tribes allied with him. He is said to have freed a raven caught in a hunter’s trap that turned into a beautiful woman who gave him he gift of being impervious to any weapon. He met a witch that tried to seduce him with her wiles and when she failed, gave him a charm to be proof against poison so he would spare her life.

The Picts are fond of tales and Merlin isn’t sure what are truth and what fiction is. He did know one thing though: that this man had single handedly united all the Pict tribes under one banner.

Eventually though, the tales aren’t enough and a new conflict arises with Arthur at the center of it. It seems Leda has grown more interested in Arthur. After finishing the mending of his clothing, she handed them over with a smile and Arthur thanked her. When he doesn’t put them on, she grows displeased, pouting and falling into a strop.

Arthur, seeing this, changes to quiet her and Shera has words with Leda. When Leda points out that Arthur is a lord’s son with statues and can be ransomed, Hoel looks on thoughtfully. When Arthur is asked by Hoel, he answers truthfully, that he had been orphaned as a child and didn’t have any parents, but that the Brotherhood would certainly pay a ransom, so long as Merlin goes with him.

While Hoel thinks this over, Leda doesn’t stop in pursuit of Arthur and the third part of the conflict comes into play: Ban the Knife-Tongue. Ban comes honestly by his nickname and has a thing for Leda, one that often blinds him to the truth.

Although Arthur gives them no reason to distrust him, he gives them enough to not love him either, especially with the way he has the women flocking around him. They needle him; hoping to bring forth a reaction like when he and Merlin first arrived. They succeed sooner rather than later.

It happens on a night of a blizzard. Arthur comes in with wood for the cook stove and as he walks by, Leda waves and throws her shoulders back, showing off her cleavage. Arthur ignores her, eyes straight ahead, but he misses Ban sticking his foot out. He trips over it and his arm full of wood goes flying and is scattered all over the floor.

Arthur ignores Ban and goes to pick up the wood. “Look at this, what man has such pretty hair on his head and none on his face? Maybe he’s not a man but a woman,” Ban says out loud. Arthur stiffens but keeps picking up the wood. Hoel just watches idly.

“Perhaps we should check and see boys?” Ban says. Soon Ban and a group of fengels gather around Arthur intent on humiliating him. What they don’t expect is for Arthur to jump up, a long branch of wood in his hands when one of them lays a hand on him.

It’s a blur after that as the fengels roar and charge. For each one that goes up against Arthur, another comes out of the fray clutching a bruised limb. Arthur grimly fights them off, protecting himself against nearly the entire steadings fighting force.

Eventually though, they overwhelm him and it takes seven to drag him down. As he yells and thrashes on the ground, they laugh and tug at his clothing. Merlin, about to yell out something, is startled when Hoel yells out, “Enough!”

The men still at their leaders roar and slowly, Arthur rises, clothing tousled, shaking with rage. He bows stiffly towards Hoel. Hoel eyes Arthur shrewdly and turns to Ban. “Do you claim injury from this man?”

Ban points a shaking hand at Arthur, “This man, this _slave_ , has made a mad house of this steading. Look how he seduces our women from under our noses.”

“If there have been any attempts at seduction, look yonder upon said woman,” Shera says loudly, nodding towards Leda.

Hoel turns to Arthur, “And what say you?”

Arthur straightens his clothing with a jerk, “My lord, he questions my manhood. I ask that you let me defend it with steel.”

Hoel turns to smirk at Ban, “It seems our wolf-cub has challenged you to an Anwig, Knife-Tongue. How will you answer?”

Merlin doesn’t know what the word means, but Ban seems to pale at Hoel’s words. Around them, the other men mutter and shift, waiting to see how Ban will answer. “He is but a slave. You can’t ask me to fight a slave,” Ban says aloud.

“Arrœk was taken hostage and fought and beat all his captures. Do you say he was a slave?” Hoel asks and Merlin can see the way Hoel’s words have maneuvered Ban into a corner.

“Arrœk is no weak southerner. Are you trying to make a mockery of me?” Ban asks, still evading Hoel’s questions.

“I doubt any will mock you for fight this slave in an Anwig. What say you?” Hoel asks, staring at Ban until at last, the man looks away. Hoel grins, “So be it. Tomorrow, there will be an Anwig!” His words are met with cheers. Hervis calls out his approval and places the first bet on Arthur. Another is placed on Ban and everything goes round, with bets being placed. No one except Merlin pays any attention as Arthur picks up his load of wood and continues to the kitchen.

~*~

The day is clear, but cold when they emerge from the main hall. The fengels make a sport of the Anwig and set to work with boards, flattening the snow into a solid field. They make a rough circle about fifteen feet across. Hay is brought out and scattered across the snow, giving the fighters traction.

Most of the fengels gather around Ban, helping him get ready and offering advice. Arthur watches this, still confused. Finally, he walks over to Hoel, “What is this manner of fight, if I might ask?”

“You challenged and did not know what you asked?” Hoel asks with a smirk. “It is an Anwig: two fighters and one sword and one shield each. The first to draw blood wins and the one to break through the lines is considered fleeing and forfeits.” Hoel eyes Arthur before nodding, “You defend your honor well and so I will lend my second best sword, but you will have to find your shield elsewhere.”

Arthur stares at the sword and tries to hand it back. “My lord, I am bound by oath to draw my sword only to kill,” Arthur tells him.

Hoel just grins, “You should hope to kill him or he will keep challenging you. Besides, I have a bet on you.” With a loud clap to Arthur shoulder, Hoel walks off.

Merlin can see the conflict on Arthur’s face and takes the choice out of his hands, “He will kill you surely and leave me unprotected. I will not tell you what to do, though,” Merlin whispers in Alban.

Hervis comes walking up and thrusts a shield at Arthur, “Here, it is not an Anwig if one of the fighters has an advantage.” He leaves before Arthur can thank him. Arthur settles the shield on his arm and tests his ranges, adjusting to the weight.

Hoel calls out, “Any more bets?” No one calls out, “Than let the Anwig begin and the challenged be given the first blow.”

Arthur walks over to the circle, Merlin behind him. When the two are inside, the men close ranks, forming a human ring. Merlin is squeezed between Hoel and another Pict and watches anxiously, heart beating loud in his ears as the two fighters settle into a fighting stance.

Ban gives a roar and charges Arthur. Arthur holds his ground and when Ban’s blade comes down, raises the shield. It holds under the blow enough, but shatters. Arthur throws the ruined shield away. He’s used to fighting without a shield anyways.

Ban yells again as he goes into a second charge. Arthur ready this time, dances out of the way at the last second, circling around Ban back. He strikes out and Ban barely has time to bring his shield up. It holds under Arthur’s blow.

Arthur parries a strike and ducks under another. Feinting to the right, he comes in under Ban’s swing and strikes point first against Ban’s shield. Yanking, he pulls the shield off of Ban’s arm. It snaps under Arthur’s boot when he stomps on it.

Ban’s face goes white as Arthur moves forward like flowing water, knocking blows aside with little effort. Ban backs up until he is pressed against the ring of men. “Please,” he says softly.

“I will not be toyed with, Pict. Either step out of the ring, or die,” Arthur says softly.

Merlin watches Ban closely. If it had just been him and Arthur, the Pict might have yielded, but with everyone watching, how could he? To lose against a slave is one thing, but to flee from one? It is one thing he cannot do.

Merlin forces himself to watch as Ban gathers his courage and charges Arthur one last time. Arthur dodges Ban’s attack and getting under his guard, rams the sword into his body, angled up. It is a death blow and when Arthur tugs the sword out, Ban falls to the ground dead, his blood staining the snow red.

Arthur stands there, shaking from adrenalin and cold, face pale. Merlin remembers that this is Arthur’s first kill. Slowly he kneels beside Ban and bows, murmuring something too soft for anyone to hear. Slowly, Arthur rises and cleaning off the blade, hands it back to Hoel. “Thank you for allowing me to defend my honor. I am sorry for the loss of your man,” Arthur says.

“Ban brought it on himself,” Hoel says, looking between the dead man and Arthur. “But perhaps you could take his place?”

“What?” Arthur asks, stunned.

“I am tempted to take another risk on you. How about it, if I give you back your things, will your oath stand? Will you protect and serve me?”

Arthur swallows and looks at Merlin. Squaring his shoulders, he nods, “I will do it, so long as Merlin remains safe.”

“Good,” he says and claps Arthur on the shoulder again. “Let’s hear it than for the wolf-cub,” he yells out and the men cheer. They all crowd around Arthur, congratulating him while Ban lays dead and cooling in the snow not ten feet away.

Merlin watches for a while, but eventually he goes inside to help Shera and the women prepare. He isn’t sure if this has made matters better or worse.

~*~

It is strange to see Arthur in his knight’s attire, sword at his hip and chainmail shirt peeking out from under his black tunic. Hoel gives him more freedom, allowing Arthur time in the morning to exercise like he used to.

Around them, the steading prepares for the ride to the Folcgemot. Merlin wishes he had a map. He could easily pinpoint where they are on the map and where they will be going, but he has no skill at navigating besides the use of the sun. All he knows is that they are close to the Highpass and that Hoel says the ride to the Folcgemot is a good seven days’ ride.

Merlin and Arthur are to go with them, though Hoel hasn’t mentioned Merlin being a gift to Arrœk. Twenty fengels will ride with them, as will Shera and four other women. Although Hoel does not want to take the women, he does not want to face Shera’s wrath.

The day they leave, a priest is called to check to see if the omens favor the journey. He pulls out a bag of white bones, from what creature Merlin isn’t sure, and stones. He tosses them into a pan of snow. As he studies the way they landed and the marks left in the snow, the Picts seem to hold their collective breath. Finally the priest looks up and nods, the omens are good.

The Picts cheer and continue to prepare for the journey. Arthur sidles up to Merlin, “Was that real magic?”

Merlin shrugs, “Who knows? To them it was. Besides, I have no skill when it comes to divination, so I can’t say for sure.” Arthur shrugs and walks off, following behind Hoel.

They rise with dawn and Hoel comes to Merlin with his arms laden with furs, a gift to keep him warm on the journey. He shows Merlin how secure everything and doesn’t pull away once he has settled the fur cloak over Merlin’s shoulders. “You will not be forgotten,” he says and presses a kiss to Merlin’s forehead.

His words nearly undo Merlin until he see Nimueh’s collar still at his throat. Taking a breath, Merlin pulls Hoel’s head down and kissed his forehead as well, a thank you to the man for the clothing. Hoel grins and stands, helping Merlin to his feet. Merlin shudders and doesn’t know if it is from the cold or the realization that Hoel intends to give him to Arrœk.

The journey takes nine days and Merlin spends them huddled in the saddle, burrowing as much as he can into his furs. The horses trudge through the snow and each night, the Picts see to their mounts first. They sleep in crude tents and Merlin huddles close to Hoel, unashamed of take warmth where he can. Arthur seems to fare better and Merlin is jealous of the ease of which Arthur rides through the cold and snow.

Eventually though, they reach the meeting place. It is settled in an enormous valley that is nearly a perfect bowl shape. At its center is a lake and around it are the tents of all the tribes of the Picts. Arrœk’s steading stands off to the side, the buildings easily twice as large as Hoel’s had been if not larger.

They aren’t unannounced; Arrœk’s sentries had seen them some distance from this place, appearing as if from nowhere with their white furs the let them blend into the snows so easily. Even Hoel seems to be surprised, but when Arthur moves to defend, the leader holds up his arm, stilling Arthur. “It is good that you will defend me, but not at the cost of Arrœk’s hospitality.” He nods to the three men. “I am Hoel Peredur of the Ar, summoned to the Folcgemot.”

“What do you bring amongst us, brother?” One of them asks, looking between Arthur and Merlin.

“What I bring is for Arrœk to reveal. They are loyal to me,” he takes on. Arthur bows at his words, the move awkward on his horse.

“You will answer for them,” one says. One of them turns and starts to walk away. Hoel, nodding to the remaining two, follows the third as he leads him down.

The encampment is controlled chaos when they finally enter it. Men, women and children all around, busy with whatever it is needed doing, the noise only just under shouting. Although it isn’t visible, Merlin can see the lines between each tribe. Gaps between tents, different markings on tents, all stand out to Merlin’s eye as they walk from territory to the next. Merlin shifts nervously, feeling the tension in the air, his horse shifting under him at his nervousness.

Merlin shifts his horse closer to Arthur’s as all eyes turn to stare at them. They stand out so easily, especially Arthur with his bright blonde hair. Their guide shows them to a spot to set up their camp and goes to leave without says another word.

“I must speak with Arrœk,” Hoel tells the man.

“If anything is to be said, it will be during the Folcgemot so all might here. Tributes will be paid in the evening when the sun is a finger’s width from the edge, he points to the rim of the valley. With a final nod, their guide leaves them. Arthur and the others start to set up camp and Merlin is left unsure of what else to do.

When Shera beckons him over after talking with Hoel, he dismounts stiffly and allows Hervis to take his reins. She and another woman, Kendra, lead him away. Merlin can feel Arthur’s eyes on him as he leaves and Hoel’s words, “He will be safe. He goes to a king and you as well.” Merlin glances back to see Arthur staring after him.

Shera leads him to the bath house, thankfully clear of others. Merlin watches as she and Kendra secure the room, giving them some privacy. “What did Hoel ask of you?” Merlin asks her.

“To make you presentable,” she tells him gently.

Sighing softly, Merlin slowly peals the furs he is wearing off until he stands nude with them a puddle at his feet. “Did he say why?” Merlin asks, but he can already guess why.

“Yes,” she says as Merlin steps forward, towards the large tub. “If I could do anything, I would, but this is a man’s world,” she says softly, a hand on Merlin’s face.

“Thank you, Shera, for your kindness, It is more than I deserve,” Merlin tells her with a smile.

“You made life a little brighter. You took our songs and made them beautiful. You deserve more than this,” she tells him.

Before she can see the tears in his eyes, he steps past her and sinks into the heated water. Wiping at his eyes, he forces the tears back. He can’t afford emotions like this at the moment. Dunking his head under water, he lets the heat seeping into his chilled bones.

By the time he is finished and dressed in a tunic and breeches of combed white wool, the sun is nearing the lip of the valley. His hair has been combed and tamed somewhat, though it will be wild once it dries. Slipping his boots back on, he stands for their inspection. “Am I ready?” he asks with a flat humor.

“If Arrœk has seen anything better, I will eat my shoe,” Shera declares and Merlin cracks a small grin at her words. She walks forward and folds him into a hug. “I will miss you child, you and that lad of yours.”

“Their gathering,” Kendra says, coming back into the room. Shera helps him into his cloak, settling the garment over his shoulders. With a nod, they leave the bath house. People stare as he walks, but he ignores them. Hoel is beaming with pride as they come up to him, Arthur just behind him, his blue eyes narrowed.

Overhead, the sun continues to lower and soon, it reaches a finger width’s distance from the lip of the valley. Arm around Merlin’s shoulders, Hoel leads them towards the great hall.

~*~

Hoel allows the other steading members to go first, keeping Merlin and Arthur hidden near the back. Even as tall as he is, all Merlin can really see is a sea of Pictish men and some women gathered in one place.

Four steadings wait for an audience with Arrœk that evening: two from the Ar tribe, including theirs, one of the Mæstling and another of the Isern. The more powerful Gold and Seolfor tribes had arrived earlier.

All seem to have brought some sort of tribute. From gold to beautifully carved wooden pieces. They follow behind the Isern tribe who give beautifully cured white pelts from all different animals. Murmurs abound at this since Arrœk’s Silent Ones, the sentries they met, used them as a symbol of who they are.

Although he can’t see Arrœk, Merlin can hear the man. His voice is deep and even and he knows how to use it like a true leader. As the men ahead of them clear out of their way, Merlin can finally catch a glimpse of the man he will be given to.

He is large, larger than Hoel, his shoulders broad. He reclines in a large throne-like chair, staring at Hoel and his men as they greet their war leader. Merlin can’t see his face, but he won’t have to wait much longer. “Hoel Peredur of the Ar, well met, brother. It is good to meet our brothers who guard and win so many battles on our southern border.”

Behind Hoel, Shera bobs her head nervously. Shifting, Merlin can finally make out Arrœk’s face, his eyes a dark brown. He looks at Shera and the women, “Be welcome as well,” he says to them.

“I also bring tribute,” Hoel says, stepping to the side. The rest follow and Merlin is given his first unobstructed view of Arrœk. “Two southern slaves, purchased with southern money paid to us to raid. They are yours.”

He shows no surprise since he must have heard of their arrival, but he still lifts a curious brow as he takes them in. Merlin bows as he was taught by Kilgharrah, bowing to foreign royalty. Beside him, Arthur makes his usual bow, arms crossed over chest.

He is handsome for a Pict. Dark brown locks swept back into a sort of club, a trimmed beard adorning his chin. In his mid-thirties, he watches them from his easy position. Merlin can feel Arrœk’s eyes on him and glances up through his fringe and knows the man is staring at his eyes.

Smirking, he looks at Hoel, “You give me two more mouths to feed?”

Shifting nervously, he shakes his head. “He is trained to please kings,” Hoel says, looking at Merlin. “My lord,” he tacks on to the end, an acknowledgement of Arrœk position, of his kingship.

“And the other?” he asks, looking at Arthur.

“A lord’s son and an oath-sworn warrior. He is bound to the boy and should you keep him safe, he will fight for you,” Hoel explains as his fengels nod behind him.

“Is it so?” he asks, looking Merlin over.

Merlin bows again, speaking. “It is so, my lord,” Merlin says, surprising Arrœk and the others who had not known he could speak Pictish. “Arthur du Bois is a knight of the Round Table Brotherhood. The five kings of Alban do not go anywhere without one knight always at their sides.”

“You speak our tongue and are trained to please kings. How do I know you have not been sent to spy on us? How is it that you became a slave?” Arrœk asks, leaning forward slightly.

Merlin looks Arrœk fully in the face, studying the markings covering his skin, each one declaring just who he is. Taking a breath, he answers, “I knew too much.”

He nods, believing Merlin’s words somewhat. He turns to Arthur, “And you, how did you get here?”

Arthur turns to look at Merlin, “Tell him I am oath-sworn to guard your life, that it is a matter of honor.”

Merlin translates quickly. “Do you swear by Hoel’s words, to guard my life?” he asks, eyeing Arthur.

Arthur stares back as well and finally, he bows again, “I swear it, so long as Merlin remains safe.”

“Mer-lin, that is how you are called?” has asks Merlin. Merlin nods. “Well then, Merlin, you will teach me Alban.” Merlin just nods again, not able to refuse. He turns to Arthur. “Let us see just what kind of warrior you are.” He makes a gesture to one of his fengels, one of the Silent Ones.”

The Pict springs forward, short spear aimed for Arrœk where he sits unmoving. Hoel grins smugly as Arthur moves into action, sliding between the fengel and Arrœk easily. Sword springing easily from his belt, Arthur parries the blow aside and kicks out, knocking the fengel back. Arthur turns away from the man and bows to Arrœk before stepping back to where he had been beside Merlin.

Arrœk appears satisfied as he stands. “You have given me an exceptional gift Hoel Peredur,” he says aloud, clapping Hoel on the shoulder and drawing him in close. Merlin glances around and shivers. Their arrival is not as welcome as it seems and from the face Merlin can see, many of the people resent them. They are among the enemy.

~*~

That night, Arrœk feasts, Hoel seated at his table to show his favor for Hoel’s gifts. Mead flows steadily, talk loud and boisterous, people breaking into songs and tales. Merlin stands behind Arrœk chair, serving him and the others at the table from a heavy jug. He soon looses count of how many times he refills his jug. He can count on one hand how often he refills Arrœk’s cup though.

The man remains sober, watching his men get drunk around them, eyes taking in everything and giving nothing back. His gaze also follows Merlin as he moves about refilling cups. Merlin tries to ignore him but its hard and it makes him self-conscious and clumsy, almost spilling twice before he forces himself to take a deep breath and steady his nerves.

Arthur attends him as well, behind his left shoulder. Two silent Ones keep an eye on Arthur as well. Merlin feels cold as he studies Arrœk. The man clearly wants to set himself up as king, but amongst these drunkard tribes he can’t achieve what he wants. Remembering his own home, Merlin shivers in fear.

There is no talk that night as they feast, only boasting and tales of their deeds. Two men, one from the Seolfor tribe and another from the Isern tribe, fall into a quarrel over a blood-feud. As drunk as they are, it doesn’t take long for swords to be drawn and a space cleared for the fight. Around them, bets are being made, Hoel in the thick of it.

The sound of Arrœk’s cup being slammed onto the table top has them all stilling and looking towards him. “Are you men or beasts? Any quarrel is to be brought up to me and if any wish to settle it will fight me? Do you wish to fight me?” he asks, looking at the two combatants in the eye until they look away. “Good, then shake hands and behave,” Arrœk growls out. The men do as asked.

“I have called you here because you have all learned to lead. You lead you folk well, but still you squabble over the smallest things. If we are to make this land truly great, then we must set aside our differences, our feuds and quarrels. We must unite under one banner and show those southerners that we are a mighty people, a force to be reckoned with!”

They cheer at his words. “You Hoel Peredur of the Ar. You wagered on the fight, did you not?”

Hoel looks down, ashamed. “I was caught up in the heat of the moment. Have you not done similarly on a cold winter’s night?” he asks, looking up at his leader.

“A wager is a challenge, Peredur and you are a guest in my hall. Will you wager that jewelry that circles your neck? A southern trinket, not doubt?” he asks Hoel.

Hoel glances at Merlin before answering, “If you admire it, then it is yours.”

“No, I will win it honestly. Come try your arm against mine,” Arrœk says, clearing the table in front of him. The men cheer at the new entertainment.

Taking the collar off, Hoel shakes his hands above his head, showing it off. Setting it on the table, he settles into a chair across from Arrœk and extends his arm. Merlin watches as their arms strain, the muscles cording out, faces turning red as they arm-wrestle.

For a second, Merlin thinks Hoel will win, but slowly, Arrœk pushes him back until at last his hand lands on the table with a loud thump. The men cheer their leader. Merlin thinks that is the end of until Arrœk beckons him forward. “Never let it be said that we are cruel master,” Arrœk says aloud.

Picking up the collar, he settles it around Merlin’s throat. Merlin shudders as the cool metal settles against his throat. Nimueh’s gift is back where is started. “What have we to fear from a people who are trained to serve?” he asks. Merlin stands there as the men cheer and feels dread knot up his stomach.

~*~

It is the next day that the Folcgemot meets. Merlin is grateful that Arrœk did not send for him that night, instead giving him a pallet in the servant’s quarters. He allows sleep to take him, ignoring the stares from the Picts.

The next morning, Arthur and Merlin are herded into a storeroom just off of the main room where the Folcgemot will meet. Each leader is allowed two fengels and their headwoman. Merlin presses his ear against the door, hoping he will hear something, but the room mutes all the sound coming in. Behind him, Arthur paces, having already tried to see if there is a way out.

“How bad was it?” Arthur asks suddenly.

“Shush,” Merlin hisses, trying to strain his hearing far enough. It’s no use though, he can’t hear anything. Sighing in frustration, he turns away from the door. Eyeing the barrels of mead in there with them, he measures them to the wall, trying to see if they are tall enough to get him up to the rafters above.

Scrambling onto one, Merlin reaches up, but he just isn’t tall enough. “Arthur, get up here and help me,” Merlin hisses down at the knight.

Sighing, Arthur complies. “You’re an idiot,” Arthur whispers as he stands next to Merlin on another barrel he had pressed closer.

“They’re planning something and if we manage to escape, do you want to tell Uther and Morgana the Picts are planning something, but sorry, we couldn’t hear? I need to get higher,” Merlin tells him.

It takes some doing, but eventually, he has Merlin on his shoulders. Reaching, Merlin’s fingers just brush the underside of the rafters. “Higher,” Merlin hisses. Grunting, Arthur grips Merlin’s feet and shoves with all his strength, lifting Merlin the last few inches needed.

When his fingers grip the rafter, Merlin pulls himself up quickly, thanking his old tumbling master silently. Looking down, Arthur seems a lot further down than it seemed getting up. Nodding to the knight, Merlin slowly inches his way along the great beam of timber, the voices of the Picts steadily getting louder and clearer.

Flat on his belly, he peers down at the assembled Picts. Hoping that none will look up and see him, he listens in one what they are saying. Sweating atop the rafter, Merlin realizes that he hasn’t missed much as a priest makes his way from the front after blessing the meeting.

Arrœk waits until the noise quiets before speaking. “In the beginning of our people, the Folcgemot was meant as a meeting place for the tribes to gather, to settle disputes and feuds, reaffirm borders and even arrange marriages. That is not why we are here today.” He stares out at them. “We are a warrior people, people fear us and yet they do not fear us enough to take us seriously. They sit safe inside their homes with the knowledge that our savagery is confined in the mountains while around us, kingdoms rise and fall.”

A murmur rises at his words as Arrœk slanders Pictish tradition. “What I say is true! Across the mountains to our south, the five kingdoms rule. Their lords walk around in silks and great palaces made of stone while we shiver in our cold wooden halls dressed in our leathers and furs.”

“We are better than that!” Arrœk yells out, the hall silent at his words. “You seek glory but what glory is found in slaying your brothers and sisters? It is time we make our mark in the land, not as some bogyman used to scare children but as a fierce proud nation that will bring the five kingdoms to their knees before us!”

Merlin clutches at the rafter as their cheers shakes it. He has won them over, even the women who imagine themselves decked out in fine silks and velvets. Merlin can’t blame them though, of wanting more. But they only grasp a small portion of what it took for the five nations to reach where they are now. They do not think of the cost that must be paid for their goal to come through. It will throw the entire Balance out of sync and bring death to them all.

One man stands up, though Merlin does not know who he is. “And how exactly do you wish to achieve this goal?” he asks pragmatically. “I know for a fact that the Southerners guard their boards closely. They may not be expecting us, but they are not unprepared either and can summon an army in little time.”

“They are not as prepared as they used to be. Already, one of the kingdoms has fallen into disorder, its king banished and a new ruler on its throne that none wish to follow while another slowly withers at its heart. They will kneel to us or they will dye fighting our might of arms.”

He is right. If the three kings to the south see Camelot and Escetia fall, they might be willing to treat with Arrœk, if only to secure their own kingdoms. The man nods. “Then where and how will we accomplish this? We have yet to win against them despite our numbers.”

Smiling, Arrœk pulls a letter from his belt, holding it up for all to see. “The Camelot king is weak and dying and has no heir except for a woman who is not even wed. I have had an offer from the Duc of d’Alene, whom men call Nædre. He wishes to be king with our aid. Should we hear his offer?”

With a collective cheer, Arrœk reads the letter slowly, translating it into Pictish. The gist of it is that the bulk of the Pictish army will come through the eastern most pass into the Escetian kingdom to engage the collective army of Escetia and Camelot, while a smaller group will go through the western most pass, west of Highpass, and attack the defenseless Camelot. Caught between the two forces, the army will have no choice but to surrender. Afterwards, the Picts will withdraw and Valiant will be made king. He will then give them Escetia and declare Arrœk king of the Picts.

Merlin can only stare in horror as he listens to Arrœk’s words. Thousands will die because one man wants more than he deserves. Tear prickle at the corner of his eyes and Merlin wipes them away furiously.

Below, Arrœk sets the letter aside and looks out at his men. “An interesting offer, but…I have a better offer. This Nædre is a cunning man and a bold fighter, but he does not understand Picts if he thinks we will settle for what he deems we should have. Instead, we shall take everything from him and give him nothing. So, instead, we will send only enough men to the eastern pass to make him think we have sent the most of our army and instead, we will amass in the western pass and sweep down through Camelot and Escetia and take everything. Caught between our two forces, he will have nothing to do but surrender.”

They jump to their feet at his words, cheering him on. “Shall we do this?” Arrœk asks. The men roar, caught up in the bloodlust and glory, but here and there, there are quieter faces, women thinking on how many will die, the losses that will be sustained to achieve this goal.

“We cannot fight in winter though. I have read many books and this I know for sure, an army travels on its belly. So we shall wait until summer, when food is plentiful. So until then, let every man go back to their steading and prepare. Let forges roar as they outfit our army and every woman count the stores in preparation for this day. What say you, how do you vote?”

Merlin isn’t surprised when no hand is raise against him. As Arrœk starts to go onto other matters, Merlin wiggles back slowly until he is at last back over the store room. Arthur watches him the entire time and once he is sure Merlin is in position; hisses at him “Get down!” Slowly, Merlin lowers himself until he hangs by his fingertips. “Let go, I’ll catch you,” Arthur tells him. Taking a breath, Merlin lets go of the rafter and drops.

His breath rushes out of him in a rush as he lands against Arthur who catches him easily, though he does stagger a little. They stand there, pressed chest to chest, Merlin still shaking with the shock of what he had learned. “They intend to invade,” Merlin whispers. “They will invade and Valiant has given them the keys to the kingdom,” Merlin spat out. “We need to find a way to warn them.”

“We will,” Arthur says softly, stepping back slightly. Taking Merlin’s face in his hands, he wipes away the furious tears Merlin hadn’t noticed he was crying, “I swear, Merlin, I will get us out of here.”

Nodding, Merlin steps back and they set about putting the storeroom back to the way it was. Merlin keeps glancing at Arthur out of the corner of his eye. Finished, they listen but the Folcgemot is still going. Arthur settles onto the ground, back against the wall. Slowly, Merlin settles next to him.

“You know, when I was first assigned to you, I thought it was punishment for something, forcing me to guard someone’s expensive plaything,” Arthur admits.

“I am a plaything,” Merlin says bitterly. “That’s all I have ever been to everyone, including Nimueh.”

“Merlin, Nimueh is not your fault. Even if you hadn’t been there, I’m sure she had other plans to get the information she wanted. It was just your luck that you drew her attention,” Arthur says softly.

“I let her do those things to me, just like I’ll let Arrœk when he comes for me. And the whole time, I’ll slowly be dying inside from shame,” Merlin says softly, gripping a fistful of hair and tugging in frustration. “I won’t be able to stop myself.”

“Then do it and live,” Arthur hisses, gripping Merlin’s arm hard. Merlin looks up at him. “and when the time comes for him to set foot on Alban soil, I will plant my sword in his gut because I won’t be able to stop myself.”

Merlin can’t stop the laughter that bubbles up at his words, the absurdity of them. It dies in his throat though when the bolt to the door is pulled back and the door opens, one of the Silent Ones standing in the door way. The Folcgemot is over and the Picts are preparing for war.

~*~

That night, the fires run high and late as the Picts stay up celebrating the call of war. Arrœk allows it, even opening up his own stores to them and barrel after barrel is rolled out and carried to camps. In the great hall, only a select few are allowed to celebrate. Hoel and Shera are there, given statues for his gift of Alban slaves and his connection with D’Alene.

Shera is still flushed with the excitement, but there are still shadows in her eyes when she looks at Merlin. He can’t forgive her, despite her kindness, for not speaking out against this war.

Arrœk doesn’t even try to hide their plans, thinking they do not know the details. Still, Arrœk keeps a close eye on Arthur who is back in his position at Arrœk’s back. The two Silent Ones watch him closely, but the only thing that gives away Arthur’s emotions is the small furrow between his brows.

Arrœk Keep Merlin close at hand, displayed like a trophy for all to see. He isn’t as obviously possessive as Hoel had been but he shows it through small things, a touch to the back of the neck, feeding him bits from his plate, running a finger along the collar around Merlin’s neck.

Merlin endures it. He would have preferred for Hoel to just throw him over his shoulder, but this calculating manipulation gets to him worse as his mind whirls with the knowledge of Arrœk’s plan. His stomach is in knots the entire night.

His hopes that Arrœk will just dismiss him again like the night before are dashed when the man stands, tugging Merlin up as well. Handing him off to one of the Silent Ones, he says, “Bring him to my room.” Merlin swallows back bile that tries to rise as fear starts to take hold.

Merlin can only follow as he is led away from the main room down a side hall. Arrœk is already in his rooms when Merlin is pushed unceremoniously into the room and the door shut. Merlin had expected a larger version of Hoel’s room and it is, but there is more than he is expecting.

A bookshelf takes up an entire wall, filed with books and scrolls. A fire roars in its hearth and next to it is a pile of steel armor, shining in the firelight. A map is pinned to the wall showing the entirety of Albion and with details of the five kingdoms. A desk sits to the right of the great bed piled with parchment, more books and correspondences.

Merlin spies a book that he had read once. It is a history on the life of Hafoc Eage, a great hero who saved his people by uniting them in a time of war and invasion. Merlin looks up at his voice, “he is a hero of mine, a model of a true leader. Do you think so?”

Merlin sets the book back down, “He united his people in a time of need, but he was no invader.”

Arrœk furrows his brow, taken aback by Merlin’s words. Few would dare to speak so to him and someone in Merlin’s position most of all. But Merlin has always had a hard time keeping his mouth shut when he needs to most.

“You know, there are no Pictish books,” he says instead of letting his irritation get the better of him.

“There are some, my lord. Some scholars have translated the Pictish language phonetically into the Alban alphabet,” Merlin tells him.

“Is that so? Perhaps I will have to find these books later. Hoel did not tell me you are a scholar, Merlin.” He steps forward but Merlin doesn’t look up at him. 

“I am a slave, my lord,” Merlin mutters.

“Have you read this book then?” he asks, holding one up. It is the Geornful Drycræft. Merlin wants to laugh at the irony of his situation. That is the first book he studied under Alice’s tutorage.

“Yes, I have studied this book,” Merlin says.

“I learned the scholars tongue from this book, my tutor an old warrior, but I never found someone who knew of such practices. Yet you do,” Arrœk says, gripping Merlin’s chin and forcing him to look up. Merlin nods against his hand.

“Hoel says that you are gifted by your gods that anyone to have you must please you,” Arrœk says softly. “He says the mark is in your eyes.

“The markings in my eyes show my connection to the Balance, nothing more and nothing less,” Merlin says.

“I please you now, do I not?” Arrœk asks, running a hand under Merlin’s eye.

“If that is what my lord wishes me to say, then yes you please me,” Merlin gets out.

“It pleases me as well,” he says softly. Letting Merlin’s face go, he steps back. “I wish to be served by one trained to serve kings. You will start on page one,” he orders.

Bowing his head Merlin begins by kneeling before Arrœk.

~*~

In the morning, Arrœk looks pleased, grinning slightly. Others notice and talk and jest, but Merlin ignores their words. He’s grateful when Arthur says nothing. Merlin had pleased Arrœk that much he knew.

Merlin learns later about Arrœk’s wife. How she was a match for him and how Arrœk loved her greatly. But she had gotten sick one winter and died by the spring thaw. He wonders if Arrœk’s wife had lived, would he be invading now.

Arrœk rides around the camp as it breaks up, talking with each leader of each camp. They will each be leaving one person behind to act as messengers. Since Merlin hadn’t been ordered to remain in the hall, he walked out amongst the camps towards Hoel’s camp.

Merlin doesn’t pay attention to where he is going, lost in thought and walks into a Mæstling fengel as he emerges from a tent. The man grins down at Merlin as he clutches at his waist in a vice like grip. “Look lads, it seems Arrœk has decided to give us one last honor.” Merlin tries to push away, but the man is stronger than he is.

It happens too fast to stop and Merlin ends up face first in the snow, his arm shoved up behind his back as the man fumbles at his clothing, trying to yank them down. Merlin’s stomach roils as he realizes he’s about to be raped in the middle of a Pictish camp in broad daylight.

Merlin writhes, trying to get away as the Pict finally yanks his breeches down to his knees. He’s fumbling at his laces when suddenly there is a roar added to the noise around them and the man holding Merlin down is lifted off of him.

Merlin scrambles up, pulling his breeches up as quickly as he can. Looking up, he sees Hervis holding the man in a headlock. He doesn’t hold him long before another Mæstling is on his back, forcing Hervis to let the man go. Another fengel grabs hold of Merlin before he can do anything, laughing at Merlin’s struggles.

No one notices Arrœk’s arrival. He’s about to yell something, but before he can, Arthur spots Merlin. Arthur’s off his horse before anyone can stop him, shouting Merlin’s name. He draws his sword unsheathed.

Two Mæstlings die before anyone realizes what’s happening. The man holding Merlin lets him go with a curse and charges Arthur, drawing his sword. Arthur fights on, trying to get to Merlin through the melee, seeming to be berserk in his goal to reach Merlin.

Arrœk dismounts soon after, wading after Arthur. Merlin had heard of Arrœk’s prowess with a sword, but he sees it now. The man seems to glide through the melee, knocking men out and tossing them aside with ease. “I order you to stop!” he roars at Arthur but Arthur is beyond hearing, continuing his attack.

As he reaches Arthur, he waits until the knight turns to attack before getting under his guard. Parrying his blow, he brings his sword up and brings its hilt down on Arthur’s temple. Arthur crumples like a puppet with its strings cut.

Arrœk stands over the still Arthur and shakes his head, “Kill him.”

“No!” Merlin shouts, rushing forward. He falls to his knees in front of Arrœk. “My lord, he was only honoring his vow to protect me. Please, spare his life and I will do anything you want.”

“You will do it anyways,” Arrœk says coolly, eyeing Merlin and Arthur. Merlin doesn’t say anything, but Arrœk must see the rebellion in Merlin’s eyes.

It doesn’t come to that though as Hervis limps over, pushing the fallen Mæstling over, and his limp cock still hanging out of his breeches. “Found him on top of the lad, my lord,” he says to Arrœk. “The boy is sworn to protect him. It was how Hoel was able to tame the warrior.”

“Who spoke against this?” Arrœk asks, his eyes cold as he stares at those around him. No one answers. “No one. No one spoke out against this. He is as much my property as my horse or my sword and no one spoke up against the theft of him?” Growling, he turns back to Merlin. “For you plea and the injury you have sustained, I will not kill him, but have him in chains.”

He motions to one of the Silent Ones. The man comes forward and picks Arthur up, carrying him off. He turns to the leader of the dead fengels, “I will pay feoh for the death of your fengels. Is that acceptable?” The man bows his acceptance. “Good, then leave me,” Arrœk says and soon the crowd is dispersed.

“What were you doing out here in the camps?” he asks, pulling Merlin to his feet.

“I… I was going to Hoel’s camp to bid farewell. Some of them had been kind to me,” Merlin says, looking up at Arrœk.

“You should have told me and I would have given you an escort. Take him to Hoel’s camp,” he tells one of the Silent Ones.

“I’ll do it, my lord,” Hervis says, coming forward.

It is the last thing Merlin wants to do now, worried over Arthur but he can’t push Arrœk any further than he has. Arrœk just grunts and gives Merlin an hour before he is gone. Merlin looks after the way they had taken Arthur, but he can’t see them anymore.

“You’ve done all you can,” Hervis says softly, leading Merlin away. “That lad’s a tough one and he’ll live, if he doesn’t force Arrœk’s hand again. Don’t go mourning him just yet.” Merlin just nods and allows himself to be led away towards the camp.

~*~

The farewells are awkward at best, both because of what has just happened and because they have just declared war on Merlin’s people. Still, Merlin puts on a smile and hugs Shera and the other women. Leaning into the head woman, Merlin whispers softly, “If Hoel asks you a fourth time, say yes. You two are well matched.” Shera pulls away with a sniff and nods.

Nodding to Hervis, Merlin allows the Pict to escort him back to the main hall. Merlin thanks his softly, giving him a hug before sending the Pict off. When Merlin can’t find Arthur, he asks Arrœk tentatively that night. Arrœk’s words are gruff, saying the knight is safe and Merlin is forced to accept his words.

Three days pass before anything happens and in those three days, Merlin finds himself as unwelcome in Arrœk’s steading as he could be. The men watch him with barely hidden contempt while the women sneer at him, jealousy clear in their faces. Only the children seem to like him and remembering his time with Freya, he braids their hair using bits of leather and cloth. He stops soon after when he sees the women undoing his work with quick, angry movements while the children cry out.

Arrœk isn’t unaware, but he doesn’t seem to understand his people’s dislike of Merlin. He tries to smooth things over by complementing Merlin, but it just makes them hate Merlin even more. So he keeps Merlin close, putting him to recreating the written language of the Picts. Merlin is glad for it allows him to hide out in Arrœk’s chambers. He even has Merlin go over maps of the five kingdoms, wanting clarifications on the details. Merlin lies as best he can without giving himself away. He can’t lie when teaching Arrœk Alban though.

At night, they work steadily through the Geornful Drycræft steadily. On the fourth day, Arrœk finally comes to Merlin, “Your companion will not eat. Maybe you should see him.”

Merlin pales at his words and quickly grabs his cloak. He follows Arrœk from the great hall, along a trail around the lake to a small hut. It is dark and dirty inside, a small straw pallet set up to the side. Arthur is knelt in the center of the hut, chained by his ankles and wrists with enough slack to reach the pallet. He chooses to kneel there.

He looks like hell. His eyes are bloodshot; dark circles stand out sharply against his pale face. Blood from where Arrœk struck him mats his hair and leaves dried streaks on his cheek. Merlin can’t hold back as he walks in. “You idiot! What are you doing?”

Arthur blinks up blearily at Merlin. “I dishonored my vow. I drew to kill,” Arthur says slowly, like it’s a great strain to talk.

“Is that all?” Merlin asks, kneeling in front of him. Merlin rubs at his face in frustration. Remembering Arrœk in the room, Merlin glances up. “He is atoning for his wrong doing,” Merlin explains.

“Tell him to live. I have atoned for the men he killed. Besides, I wish to learn his style of fighting,” Arrœk tells Merlin.

Arthur seems to follow Arrœk’s words because he laughs harshly, “You bested me. Why would you want to learn from me?”

“You were not expecting me to attack and you had given your word to protect me,” Arrœk says slowly so Arthur can follow.

“I cannot teach him,” Arthur tells Merlin in Alban. “I have failed you too many times and I have dishonored my vow. It’s better if I die.”

The sound of flesh slapping flesh startles everyone, including Merlin who stares at his hand and Arthur’s cheek where a red mark is starting to show. “You have not failed me, knight. Not yet any way. But if you keep of the pity trip you are and I will be sorely tempted to just leave you here.” Merlin leans closer, “This is another test Arthur and I can’t do this alone.” 

“I can’t,” Arthur says miserably, looking at Merlin. “I can’t even protect you now,” Arthur turns to look at Arrœk, “I’m sorry, but I’m not worthy to live.”

Merlin swears then, long, loud and creatively in as many languages as he knows and some that seem almost made up. Shoving Arthur he glares down at him. “Damn it, knight, is that all the courage you have? I swear, if I ever get back, I am writing a letter to your captain to tell him how a sorcerous whore had more courage than one of his knights,” Merlin hisses at Arthur.

“You wouldn’t,” Arthur says, glaring up at Merlin from where he is struggling to rise.

“Try and stop me. Lifwraþu, knight,” Merlin says loudly. Merlin is terrified, but he can’t show it, not when Arthur needs him so much.

Arthur struggles up until he is kneeling. “It’s hard,” he says softly, tears in his bloodshot eyes.

“I know it is, but you aren’t alone in this,” Merlin tells him.

Arrœk walks up with a bowl of broth that one of the Silent Ones had brought with him. “Eat and live,” he says simply to Arthur in Pictish. Merlin looks back once to see Arthur lowering his head to sip from the bowl. One of the knots in his stomach loosens as that worry lets go. Arthur will heal, eventually.

~*~

Arthur continues to eat and regain his strength, though he develops inflammations on his wrists and hands where the manacles had chafed. They itch and ache and he uses them as a reason to put off teaching Arrœk his fighting style. Arrœk grants Merlin his request to visit Arthur once a day, seeing it as a way to encourage the knight to continue to live and heal.

Merlin looks forward to this. Arrœk is busy, so he sets a Silent One to escorting Merlin to and from the hut. Arthur continues to keep the extent of his knowledge of Pictish secret which arouse no suspicion when they speak in Alban.

There is not much to speak of. They can’t plan an escape with the camp so well-guarded. So they try to encourage each other, keeping them from letting depression truly take hold. Arrœk, impatient to learn from Arthur, sends for a priest and healer to see to Arthur’s hands.

Merlin rides with Arrœk to meet the priest the next day. Geberan the White-Eyed is not just a priest, he is a Hwata, a soothsayer. He gets his name from his eyes, which are such a pale blue, they appear almost white. He is an older man, his hair white with age, though still limber in his frame.

He doesn’t appear surprised when Arrœk and his men arrive at his hut in the woods. “Arrœk Gualdson,” the priest says, using a name Merlin hasn’t heard before for Arrœk.

“Hwata, this is Merlin nó Emrys of the five kingdoms. He has a companion whose wound will not heal,” Arrœk says, bowing his head in respect to this man. That surprises Merlin who has seen Arrœk bow to no one.

“Indeed he is,” the Hwata says, eyeing Merlin right behind him. “Come in then,” Geberan calls out, walking back into his hut.

Arrœk and Merlin follow behind him, the Silent Ones staying outside to guard. He looks Merlin over, staring longest at Merlin’s eyes. “And what do they call those?” he asks.

Merlin shakes his head, “They have no name,” Merlin murmurs, feeling a little off center. He’s never met a man like this before.

Geberan grunts, “Still means your marked, even without a name.”

“Hwata,” Arrœk starts to say.

“I know, I know. You want me to look at the lad’s hands and look this one over and give you advice. What advice can I give when you willingly take a weapon used by fate itself into your fold?” He snorts and walks over to a bag on a side table. 

Merlin can feel Arrœk staring at him, a frown on his face, but he doesn’t look at him. He’s just as confused by the man’s words as Arrœk is. He’s never thought of himself as a weapon before. Grabbing his bag, Geberan follows them out and they mount up again, back towards the camp.

When they reach the hut that Arthur is in, he just walks straight in. Arthur jumps at his entrance. “Well, stop staring boy and let’s see them,” Geberan say gruffly. He examines Arthur inflamed wrists and hands, the skin cracked and red. “hmm, I’ve got something that’ll clear that up,” he mutters digging into his bag. Pulling out a jar, he unstoppers it and a rank smell suffuses the hut. Flinching at the smell, Arthur looks up at Merlin.

“He is a healer our lord Arrœk has asked to see to your wounds so that you may teach him,” Merlin says in simple Pictish.

Arthur bows his head, “I thank you and look forward to it.”

“Are you done Hwata?” Arrœk asks the priest.

“Nearly,” he says, wrapping bandages around Arthur’s appendages. Finished, he stands, wiping the ointment off on his breeches. “He will heal quickly,” he says and patting Arthur on the head, walks out with them. Merlin glances at Arthur before following.

Arrœk is talking with one of the Silent Ones, so Merlin approaches the priest. “Did you mean it, about me being a weapon?” Merlin asks softly, keeping one eye on Arrœk.

“Who knows what the gods plan. Anything can become a weapon in the right moment,” he looks Merlin over out of the corner of his eye, the irises almost white in the light. “Beware, young warlock, everything comes with a price and not everything is for you to pay for.”

With a salute, he walks off, back the way they had come. He’d refused a ride back, saying he’d rather walk. Merlin can only stare, gobsmacked. As Arrœk approaches, he schools his face into a neutral expression but stores the man’s word to go over later.

Arrœk’s response is to regard Merlin with suspicion after the priest’s visit. Instead of taking Merlin that night, he spends it studying Merlin’s Mearcung, tracing it’s bold lines. “Perhaps there are magic ruins inked in here.”

“The only magical thing about it is that it gives me freedom once it is complete,” Merlin says softly, holding himself still.

“You say the reason you were sold is because you knew too much. I would have just killed you. Why were you allowed to live?” he asks, turning Merlin over onto his back to face him.

Merlin remembers Nimueh’s words and shudders slightly. “I am the only one of my kind,” Merlin says simply. Arrœk just shrugs his words off, pulling Merlin closer as he runs a hand through his hair.

~*~

Arthur does heal quickly. Arrœk has his arms brought to him soon after and the training begins. Merlin had paid little heed to Arthur’s morning practices and their somewhat play bouts. He hadn’t realized that when he said he couldn’t train Arrœk, he meant that Arrœk couldn’t just add it to his fighting style. 

The knights begin training at ten and continue throughout their lives, never stopping. Arrœk just can’t seem to understand that he has to unlearn all he knows of fighting if he is going to learn Arthur’s style of fighting.

Of course, when Arrœk starts to make a fool of himself and grows impatient. He stops the training and locks Arthur’s sword and armor in his cupboard in his rooms and keeps the shackle on Arthur permanent. He continues to be suspicious of them.

One of Arrœk’s men comes soon after with a letter from across the border. Merlin is too far away to read it, but he hears Arrœk words to the messenger, “Nædre suspects nothing!”

The messenger says something but Merlin doesn’t catch it, too busy staring at the sealing wax on it. The insignia impressed into it is one he knows by heart, an ancient symbol for House L’Isle: Nimueh’s mark. Merlin should have known. If she was clever enough to bring down the Escetian throne, it would be child’s play to her to play on both sides of a war.

Merlin is so shocked, he almost doesn’t hear Arrœk tell the messenger that they will be holding a great hunt on the next day to celebrate the continuation of their plans. A plan sparks into life at Arrœk’s words. Silently, Merlin slips away unnoticed.

He returns a few minutes later, letting Arrœk see his approach. Kneeling, he asks to visit Arthur and Arrœk waves his hand in absentminded approval and dismissal, sending one of the Silent Ones as his escort. Merlin studies the layout of the camp the whole way to the hut. It could work, if he can get Arthur to agree to it.

Arthur is exercising inside as much as he can, doing push-ups. Merlin’s escort give a quick glance around the hut before going back outside. Before Merlin can say anything, Arthur says, “Look.” He pulls on his chain, showing that the ring the chain connects to is loose in the plank of wood. “What’s happened? I can hear the camp stirring from here.”

“A messenger arrived. He bore a letter for Arrœk, from Nimueh,” Merlin says softly.

Arthur is silent for a minute before asking, “What did it say?”

Merlin shrugs, “I couldn’t see, but I know she told Arrœk that D’Alene suspects nothing.”

“Do you think it’s true?”

“I don’t know. She and D’Alene could be playing Arrœk. It is a possibility. Either way, a crown falls and she gains,” Merlin says. Taking a deep breath, he asks the question he had come here for, “Arthur, could you kill a man with your hands?”

Arthur pales, but asks, “Why?”

Merlin tells him his plan as quickly as possible.

Arthur paces the hut, brow furrowed. Each step clinks as his shackles rattle. “What you ask Merlin, it goes against everything I uphold. You want me to attack…to kill unprovoked. You ask me to do murder,” he says looking at Merlin.

“I know,” Merlin whispers. Despite everything he could say to excuse it, it is still just that: murder.

They are silent as Arthur thinks and paces, finally, he stills, looking down at Merlin. “I will do as you ask,” he says softly.

~*~

Merlin is restless the rest of the day. He spends it either in nervous sweats or fearful chills, his thoughts whirling, going over everything that can happen to make them fail. For once, Merlin is glad that Arrœk is busy with preparations. If he had been observing Merlin, he would have realized something was up.

That night, he still has Merlin. Merlin endures it, bracing against each of his thrusts, cursing the way his body responds despite his hatred of the man taking him. Afterwards, Arrœk sleeps and Merlin lies awake, staring straight ahead.

The fire, only embers now, strike something metallic. Merlin looks and sees Arrœk dagger resting on the headboard shelf above them. It would take little more than a bit of a stretch to reach it and he could bring it down on Arrœk’s throat.

Merlin shifts cautiously, reaching slowly. The bed creaks and Merlin almost jumps as Arrœk’s hand grasps his wrist. Heart in his throat, Merlin tries to play it off. Giving a sleepy protest, Merlin makes it look like he was going to wrap his arm around Arrœk, wanting to be closer to him.

Arrœk is surprised but pleased by Merlin’s supposed tenderness. Giving a soft laugh, he goes back to sleep with Merlin pressed close. Merlin lays awake most of the night, trying to slow his heart and easy the fear paralysis in his limbs. Eventually though, exhaustion takes him and puts him under.

~*~

The morning is clear as they make ready to leave for the hunt. One of the Silent Ones, Gauter, draws the short straw and is forced to stay to guard Merlin. Merlin can only feel sickening guilt that this man’s fate has been sealed by luck.

Soon, the hunt party leaves and the hall is left echoingly empty. Gauter lays about, clearly bored. Merlin waits a good ten minutes before making his way to Arrœk’s rooms. Inside, he quickly shuts the door and makes his way over to the cupboard where he stores Arthur’s things as well as other items of importance.

Bending the point of a brooch until it’s a hook, Merlin silently thanks Gwaine for teaching him how to pick locks. It doesn’t take long to get the lock undone. Inside is Arthur’s things as well as some coins, clothing and letters. Merlin sits down and quickly reads through the letter from Nimueh.

It is brief, confirming what Arrœk had said aloud. He rereads it just to be sure. He can feel it, that little bit of a spark that is her magic embedded in it. This is definitely her letter and her hand writing. Arrœk’s saddle bags are set off to the side, unneeded for a hunt. Merlin shoves the letter, clothing and a tender box into the bags.

Quickly fixing his makeshift lock pick back into his cloak, Merlin settles his cloak about his shoulders and heads back out. Gauter is still where he left him. “What do you want?” he asks.

“I wish to visit my friend, sir. My lord Arrœk allows me to visit him once a day,” Merlin says, trying to look as submissive as possible.  
“I’ll take you later,” he says waving Merlin away.

Taking a breath, Merlin continues, “If you want, I could go alone. The steading is empty and it should be safe for me to go by myself.”

“Oh just let him go,” Wendra, one of the women there, says as she flutters her lashes at Gauter.

“And have word get back to Arrœk that I let him go alone?” standing, he shrugs on his white furs and jerks his head at Merlin. “Come on, and make it brief.”

Merlin nods and follows. His nerves have calmed now that he is actually doing it. Entering the hut, it takes Merlin’s eyes a moment to adjust. He see the center empty, the ring that had held Arthur to the floor, gone, pulled out of its hole. He spies Arthur to his right beside the doorway and moves further in.

Gauter follows. He gets two steps in before Arthur is on him, looping the chain around his neck and pulling back. Merlin forces himself to watch as Gauter dies a slow painful death as he gasps for air. Eventually though he falls unconscious. Arthur is quick and efficient, snapping the man’s neck.

Shuddering at the sound of his neck breaking, Merlin kneels and motions to Arthur to come closer. Using the brooch from before, he makes quick work of his shackles. “We need to strip him,” Merlin says grimly, looking up at Arthur.

Arthur just nods, his face a little pale, but set. It takes some time but soon they have Gauter stripped of his clothing. Arthur doesn’t even comment as he stands, striping his clothing off and pulling on the dead man’s clothing instead.

“Let me see,” Merlin says softly. Picking up some soot from the brazier in the room, he smudges it into Arthur’s hair and face. He will be less noticeable this way. Pulling the hood of the white furs down over his brow, Merlin nods. He will pass for a Silent One at a distance.

“Ready?” Merlin asks Arthur nods. “The great hall will be the hardest part, but I got as much as I could into the saddle bags. We can get supplies from the stores in the lesser halls.”

“I need my arms,” Arthur hisses.

“They’re not Pictish. Take Gauter’s,” Merlin says.

“I need my gauntlets at least. I can’t fight with a shield, you saw me in the Anwig.”

Sighing, Merlin nods. “Take them for now though. Slouch and look sullen. If anyone tries to talk, shake your head. If they persist, say ‘Arrœk’s orders. He’s making camp.’” Arthur repeats the words over and over until he can say them well enough to pass. “And treat me like dirt,” Merlin adds.

“Hang on,” Arthur says, just before they are about to leave. Kneeling, he says something softly to the man he just killed, closing his staring eyes. Standing up, he nods. “Let’s go.” Taking a breath, Merlin draws back the hide door and walks back out into the sunlight.

~*~


	6. Part 6

**Part 6**   


With every step, Merlin expects to hear a cry, a yell as they are discovered. The distance, which had seemed brief in the first crossing, seems to stretch on unending. Arthur walks next to him, head lowered, pulling off a sullen disposition well, but on such a clear day, it may take more than that to pull this off.

They stop at the lesser hall first and one of the cerols comes forward, bowing respectfully to Arthur, the disguise holding. “What can I do for you?” he asks, curiosity evident in his eyes. Merlin isn’t known very well here as Arrœk liked to keep Merlin close in his own hall.

Arthur shakes Merlin by the arm. “Tell him,” he growls.

For a second Merlin is frozen, the words eluding him. Arthur shakes him again, harder this time and it is enough to snap him back into focus, “My lord Arrœk will be making camp with a few of his men. He sends for a skin of mead, two sacks of pottage and a cook-pot. Bring them to the stable and Gauter will bring them to him.”

“Only one skin?” he asks.

“Three,” Arthur growls out and shakes Merlin again. Not waiting for the cerols to question them, Arthur turns and drags Merlin along behind them. Merlin lets him, his heart still racing at the almost slip up. His legs are shaking and if Arthur hadn’t been holding him, he would have collapsed by now.

When Arthur shoves him into the great hall and makes him stumble, Merlin turns to glare at him, the anger helping him get control of himself. Arthur just glares back and grunts, nodding towards Arrœk’s rooms.

No one is around to see them and they walk quickly to Arrœk’s rooms. Inside, Merlin points Arthur towards the cupboard holding his gear which he hadn’t locked when he’d left earlier. Stripping off Gauter’s clothing, Arthur pulls on his chainmail and gauntlets, flexing his fingers in the leather. Buckling his sword belt on, Arthur pulls the clothing back on, using the white furs to conceal his sword slightly. It won’t cover it completely, but hopefully no one will notice a Silent One with a knight’s sword.

He lifts the saddle bags and is about to leave when realization strikes Merlin, “Nimueh’s letter.”

“You said it was in the saddle bag,” Arthur says softly, looking back at Merlin.

“It is,” Merlin says and yanks the bags from Arthur, rooting around in them until he pulls it out. “But Arrœk doesn’t know we know his plans. If we take it, it will tip his plans and he might change them and then our information will be wrong. We’ll just have to leave it hear,” Merlin says, shoving it back into the cupboard and shutting the door with a click.

They aren’t as lucky leaving. Wendra spots them just before the reach the main door. “Where are you going?” she asks, eyeing Arthur and Merlin.

“Arrœk’s orders,” Arthur mutters.

“Well I haven’t heard of any orders,” she says annoyance clear in her face. She starts to step forward and Merlin realizes that in two more steps, she will see it’s not Gauter under the fur hood.

Shaking Arthur off, he steps forward, planting himself between her and Arthur, “And why would you?” Merlin asks, putting as much disdain into his voice as possible. “Does he send for you when he wants pleasure? Does he send for any woman? Of course not, why send for a common woman when he can have someone trained to please kings. And if you wish to remain in his favor, you will remember that he is your king and that you shouldn’t question his order.”

Spinning away from her, Merlin marches out of the hall, Arthur following behind, giving the stunned Wendra a disgruntled shrug. Merlin’s heart is hammering in his chest by the time Arthur catches up to him and his hands are sweating. “Not so fast,” Arthur hisses and Merlin slows, trying to slow his racing heart.

They make it to the stables without incident. A few horses are still left, including Merlin’s sturdy horse that he had ridden here from Hoel’s. One of the cerols runs up as they approach. “I received the supplies sent. Is it true Arrœk is making camp?” he asks.

“Arrœk’s orders,” Arthur says again.

Merlin nods. “He also sent for me. Saddle my horse,” Merlin says, butting in before the ceorl can get too close to Arthur. The man nods and rushes off to ready Merlin’s mount.

“He also said fodder for…oh, what was it, a dozen?” Arthur nods, grunting in confirmation of Merlin’s words. The ceorl nods back and runs off to get it while the stable lads finish getting Merlin’s mount ready.

Merlin is sure that if these men stop and listen they can hear his heart trying to pound out of his chest. But they don’t, going about readying their escape. They even bring the mounts out to them. Arthur quickly secures the saddle bags and mounts up, grunting and jerking his head at Merlin in an impatient movement.

Hands shaking, Merlin mounts up as well. When Arthur sits there, Merlin realizes he has no idea which way the hunt went. “Head to the north end of the lake and up the trail,” Merlin says softly in Alban.

They ride back through the steading and the remaining tents, though they stick to the edges as much as possible. None stop them and soon, they are around the lake and heading up the trail. Merlin can’t breathe a sigh of relief, even as the trees close up around them. They aren’t in the clear yet.

They follow the trail, Merlin’s mind whirling, thinking over every little detail. He realizes they forgot to acquire a tent. If they freeze to death, it will be his fault. After a short time, Arthur pulls his horse up, and blowing on his fingers, turns to Merlin. “How do we do this?” he asks.

“I’m not sure. I never thought it would get this far and never planned for afterwards. I know where we are, thanks to Arrœk’s maps. If we head south, eventually, we will make it free into either Camelot or Escetia. How we get there alive, I’ve no idea but we need as much of a head start as possible before they find us gone.”

Arthur nods, “You got us out, I’ll get us home.” Looking at the sky, he angles his mount until he is pointing south. “The knights are trained to survive in all kinds of conditions. We’ll survive the cold at least.”

With his bearing in place, Arthur turns back and keeps following the trial until they reach a break in the trail that leads south. Stopping a short distance, Arthur dismounts, and tells Merlin to wait there. He returns some minutes later, a pine bough in his hand. He’d erased their trail.

“They won’t see it if they’re not looking but it won’t pass closer inspection, but it will be dusk soon and hard to see. “Let’s still put some distance between us though.” Merlin just nods and spurs his mount after Arthur.

It is silent as they ride, but not silent enough as one of the Silent Ones that guards Arrœk’s borders appears, spears pointed at them in challenge. They had completely forgotten about the guard in their rush to escape.

The sight of Arthur throws him into confusion, his spears lowering slightly. “Brother,” he says, “Where are you headed?”

Merlin’s heart clenches and he turns to look at Arthur. The knight just stares silently for a drawn out moment before an anguished cries rips out of his chest. Digging his heels into his mount’s sides, he draws his sword, the blade hissing as it leaves its sheath.

The man is down before he even has time to realize Arthur is charging. Pulling his horse to a stop, Arthur pants, staring at the man he just killed. “What’s going on-,” another Silent One says, appear from where the first had come from. He stops when he sees his companion on the ground, slain.

This time, Arthur is the one left stunned. The man doesn’t even ask questions, charging Arthur spear raised. Ducking under it, Arthur pushes off of his mount, tackling the man to the ground, sword thrusting forward to bite at him through his furs.

As Arthur struggles to his feet, the second Pict remains down, blood starting to pool in the snow. Arthur’s face is grey as he swallows back bile. “I’m sorry,” Merlin murmurs.

Arthur just nods, his jaw clenched tight. Walking to one of the Picts, he pulls off the crude mittens he wears. He holds them out to Merlin and Merlin doesn’t argue, just pulls them on. Mounting back up, he guides his horse around the dead men.

They continue on unchallenged through uninhabited territory. They push the horses as much as they dare, often times through drifts of snow as high as their horse’s breast. They stop at a stream, letting the horses drink slowly. Emptying out two of the mead skins in the water, he refills them with water.

Continuing on, they had their midday meal in the saddle, dry pottage and cold water. Dismounting, Arthur leads his horse through a drift, giving it a respite from his weight and breaking up the snow. He makes Merlin do it as well and though Merlin hates him for it, the exercise warms him up.

Merlin has a clear map in his mind of where they need to go, but he is no navigator. He has no idea how to compare the inches of distance on a map to the vastness of the frozen mountains. So they follow the sun’s trail, keeping it their right as it sets.

Eventually though, Arthur stops them in a small clearing. “We need to make camp before the sun sets.”

Merlin dismounts after him, teeth chattering with cold. “Do you think it’s safe to light a fire?” he asks.

“It’s not safe not to light one. We’ll freeze if we don’t,” Arthur says. They start to gather dead branches, stacking them into a pile. Arthur pulls out the tinderbox when Merlin asks him to wait. Staring at the wood, he reaches for his magic, the word falling off of his lips, “Forbærnan.” He feels his magic stir, wanting to do as he commands, but the block is still there.

Merlin shakes his head, clenching his fists. Arthur doesn’t say anything as he slowly and patiently gets the fire going, blowing on it softly until the larger sticks catch. Arthur nudges him with the cook pot. “Water the horses with water from one of the skins and then thaw snow. Afterwards, start the pottage cooking,” Arthur tells him.

Merlin nods, glad to have something to do. As he waters their mounts, keeping them from guzzling too much too fast, Arthur sets about seeing to the horses. Unsaddling them, he quickly rubs them down and sets some fodder near them. Hobbling them with some leather scavenged, Arthur sets about making camp.

By the time Merlin has finished seeing to the horses and gotten the pottage going, Arthur had the camp set up. A bed of pine boughs, the branches smelling sharp with their sap, is set near the fire. One of the cloaks Merlin had snagged is laid over it. A pile of fire wood is within easy reach should they need to add more to the fire in the night.

“It’ll keep the snow from stealing our warmth,” Arthur explains to him. “We’ll have to sleep close for warmth.” Merlin just nods. Unsheathing his sword, Arthur pulls out a whet stone and starts to sharpen it.

Leaving the pottage on the fire to finish cooking, Merlin goes to sit next to him. “I tried to kill Arrœk last night,” Merlin admits, speaking for the first time in a while. He can feel Arthur’s surprised gaze on him, but doesn’t look away from staring at the fire.

“Why? They would have killed you,” Arthur says, momentarily forgetting his sword in his hands.

“Yes, but it wouldn’t matter. Without Arrœk, the Picts would never unite. He is their linchpin, the one that holds them together. And then you wouldn’t have had to betray your vow,” Merlin admits, wrapping his arms around his knees. He glances at Arthur out of the corner of his eye, but Arthur still has the hood up and his face is mostly in shadow.

“What happened?” he asks.

“He woke up,” Merlin says. “It was the priest that gave me the idea. He said I was fate’s weapon. I was lucky he didn’t know what I was planning.”

“Merlin…” Arthur says staring at Merlin still. “Sometimes you put me to shame,” he admits. “I wish I could have known Kilgharrah better to have created such a pupil.”

“So do I,” Merlin says softly. Turning to look at Arthur, Merlin smirks a little. “Though to be honest, the first time I met you, I thought you were—,”

“An over-zealous, muscle-bound, idiot of a knight,” Arthur says with a small smile.

Merlin shakes his head. “That was before I met you. Once I did, I thought you were a smug, arrogant, prat of a knight.”

Arthur laughs right out at his words, “You’re right, I was.”

Merlin shakes his head again. “No, I was wrong. The man I thought you were would have died in Hoel’s kennels than give up his pride. But you kept fighting. It’s because of you that I’m still alive.”

“That wasn’t just me, Merlin,” Arthur tells him. “I’ll do what’s needful to let us reach Camelot and Morgana de la Pendragon alive and if I’m to be damned for what I’ve done, then better in full than in halves.”

The forest around them is muffled with silence, the only thing heard is the horses grazing and stamping their feet, the wood in the fire crackling. “We should eat,” Merlin says softly.

Arthur nods and standing, he quickly brings the pot from the fire. With only one spoon, they share it between them, taking bits. When the pot is empty, Arthur scraps and cleans it out. Merlin sits on the bed of pine branches, watching him. Full of food, he is warm and drowsy and despite the worry biting at him, he knows that the moment he lays down, he will fall asleep.

Finished, Arthur adds another log to the fire and comes back to the bed. Lying down, the huddle close, Arthur pressed up behind him, arm around his waist. With every last pit of cloth piled on them, it doesn’t take long for them to start to warm up. “Sleep,” Arthur whispers, the words vibrating through his chest into Merlin’s back. Merlin sleeps.

~*~

Merlin wakes alone and cold in the morning. Groaning, Merlin rolls out of the bed, shivering as the cold air fills in where there once was warmth. Arthur is at the fire, thawing snow on the still going fire, though their fire wood pile is on the last few logs.

The next hour is spent having Arthur teach Merlin how to help him. He learns how to saddles and care for his own horse. Arthur is only one man and can’t do everything. Finished with the lesson, they soon break camp and continue south, the sun to their left as it rises over the mountains.

Merlin learns quickly as they keep moving. Using one of the smaller pieces of clothes, he fashions a sort of burnoose around his head and face to preserve warmth. The knife at his waist, taken from Gauter, hangs heavy, a weighted reminder of what they had to do to escape. Patting his horse’s neck, Merlin follows Arthur.

By the third day, they have met no one. In the distance, Merlin spots a thin trail of smoke. “Gharen’s steading, of the Isern,” Merlin tells Arthur. “If we head east and follow this ridge, it should take us around his territory and any patrols he might have set up,” Merlin informs, remembering the lines on Arrœk’s map.

Arthur takes a step forward and the ledge he is on gives out from under him, nothing solid underneath it. Merlin flings himself back, holding onto the granite bolder that thrusts out of the snow a few feet away from what is left of the ledge.

Edging closer, Merlin glances down. He can just see Arthur’s head poking through the snow. “Arthur?” Merlin calls out. Crawling out of the snow, Arthur waves that he is all right. Nodding, Merlin turns to check on their mounts. His horse is still where he left it, though it tosses its head in agitation. Arthur’s has bolted a few yards away, whites showing in its eyes.

Sighing, Merlin glances down to see that Arthur has started to climb back up and slowly rises. The snow holds and he edges his way back towards the trail. On solid ground, he starts to make his way towards the horse, hand out.

It takes them an hour to get going again. It takes Arthur that long just to climb back up with only snow as handholds. It takes Merlin that long because the horse is spooked and any time he gets close enough, the horse bolts again.

Arthur looks ready to drop from exhaustion when Merlin looks at him. “We need to keep going,” he says, seeing Merlin’s worried glance.

Merlin nods, “At least the horses are rested.” Arthur sends him a small smile at that.

~*~

They are both jumpy that night at the lost time. With every noise, they jerk, expecting something that isn’t there. Arthur stares at the fire.

“Merlin,” Arthur pauses, looking up from the fire, “If…when they catch up to us, I want you to do something for me. Whatever I say and do, play along with it. I want to show you something,” he says motioning for Merlin to stand.

Merlin does, still not sure what to say to Arthur’s words. He lifts Gauter’s shield from the pile of their things. It is a simple buckler shield, made mostly of wood with hide covering it and a metal disk in the center. Arthur shows him how to hold it, how to settle it on his arm to cover his body.

“If…if you have a chance to get away, take it. Don’t wait for me. You know enough now and with the supplies, you can survive. But, if you don’t then use the shield and I’ll do what I can.” Arthur’s voice is subdued, his eyes sad in the firelight.

“Lifwraþu: protection of life,” Merlin says softly. Merlin grips the shield with cold aching fingers and wants to cry for his brave knight.

“Go to sleep, dolt,” Arthur says, turning away. “I’ll take the first watch.”

~*~

With morning comes snow. It batters them as they wade through waist deep snow, either on horseback or walking. Merlin is cold, shivering under his furs. The white seems endless and slowly, he falls into a sort of waking dream. His horse is the only thing guiding him, following Arthur’s trail and horse.

It takes him a moment to realize that what he’s hearing isn’t the wind howling through the trees. He jerks away, eyes wide. “Arthur!” The wind snatches his words away, but Arthur seems to hear, turning to look back at Merlin. “They’re coming.”

He stops and Merlin comes in close. “How many?” he asks, the wind and snow picking up.

“I don’t know, six maybe eight,” Merlin yells to be heard.

“Ride!” Arthur yells, smacking Merlin’s horse’s rump. They go tearing through the snow, plunging in and out of drifts, blinded by snow and wind. Merlin can hear them more clearly now, their war-chants drifting over the howl of the wind.

They burst through the trees into a clearing, a large rock face greeting them. They’re on their last dregs as are the horse. Merlin can feel is horse trembling underneath him. Arthur pulls his horse up, looking at Merlin.

The wind has died down some and he can hear him clearer, as well as the approaching Picts. “We’ll make a stand here. Take this and guard yourself,” he says holding out the shield to Merlin. Nodding, Merlin takes it, dismounting.

Stiff with cold and fear, Merlin hunches down near the rock face, shield in front of him. Arthur moves in front of him, sword drawn, chainmail flashing in the weak light, waiting for them to arrive. As they stop running, the chanting stops and out of the swirling snow, seven Picts ride: Arrœk’s best trackers and his fastest riders.

Arthur stands before them alone and they stop in front of him. He throws his sword down, “In Arrœk’s name, I surrender.” They laugh and the snow picks up and obscures Merlin’s vision but when it dies, four have dismounted, swords drawn. Two hang back and the third is riding towards him.

Arthur waits until the Picts are close enough and as one goes to poke him in the chest with the tip of his sword, Arthur knocks the blade aside with his gauntleted hand. Springing forward, he rolls until he comes up with his sword back in his hand, swinging it at the nearest man.

Merlin’s gaze is torn between Arthur’s fight and the approaching Pict. He can make out who is on the horse: Hervis the Beardless, of Hoel’s steading. Merlin is frozen at the sight of him, long enough for him to dismount and get at him behind the shield. Grabbing Merlin around the waist, he pulls him up. “Southerner, stop, I have your companion!” he yells at Arthur, pointing a dagger at Merlin’s throat. “I won’t do it,” he whispers into Merlin’s ear. “Arrœk wants you alive.”

One of the figures pauses, sword lowered slightly. Behind him, one of the still mounted Picts charges forward, his spear raised. “Arthur, don’t listen to him!” Merlin yells.

Hervis swears and shakes Merlin, knocking the breath from hi momentarily. Merlin can feel the edge of the dagger pressing at his throat. He stamps down on Hervis’s foot and almost breaks free, but the man holds on.

“Don’t make me harm you,” he hisses at Merlin. “I mean to regain the honor of our steading with our return.”

Griping at Merlin, the shield is between them, an awkward barrier. Tugging off his mitten, Merlin fumbles for the dagger at his waist with numb fingers. Sliding it from the sheath, Merlin looks up at Arthur who is still fighting.

There are three left, two on the ground and one on horseback. Arthur’s sword flashes and one of the grounded Picts goes down.

Merlin looks up at Hervis, so young. He is no longer beardless, the stubble on his jaw thickening. Merlin’s hand is sweaty around the dagger. “Let me go, Hervis,” Merlin says softly.

“I will not be swayed. You will be taken back,” he growls stubbornly.

“Let me go Hervis, or I will kill you,” Merlin says softly, throat thick with what he is about to do. He is intent on the battle, shouting a warning to his comrade and doesn’t listen to Merlin’s words.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says bitterly and slides the into Hervis’s side with as much force as he can muster in his awkward position.

It seems to take Hervis a moment to realize what Merlin has done, staring down at him with wide surprised eyes. With a ragged breath, Merlin grips the dagger again and forces it upwards, into his heart. Hervis lets go of him and take a step backwards. He crumples to the ground, Merlin forcing himself to watch as the light fades from his eyes.

Merlin looks up to see Arthur facing the last grounded Pict, the one on horseback circling them. Arthur locks swords with the man and the Pict grins, bearing down on him. Behind him, the Pict on horseback starts to charge, his battle ax raised to strike Arthur down unawares.

Merlin gives a yell and time seems to slow as if in a dream. Merlin reaches for his magic, using his fear for Arthur’s life, his anger and grief, all his emotions to burst through the barrier blocking him from his magic. It gives with a crack and Merlin can only gasp as his magic swamps his senses. Before he can let it overwhelm his senses, Merlin directs his magic towards the charging Pict with a yell.

The force of his magic sends the man and horse flying through the air to stop as they strike a tree. Both fall and neither rises. Merlin falls to his knees, gasping for air, trembling. He doesn’t notice Arthur’s approach until the knight is in front of him, calling his name.

“Are you okay?” he asks once Merlin looks up. Merlin nods dumbly, looking down at Hervis still splayed on the ground. “He gave me his cloak and never asked for it back,” Merlin says softly.

Arthur shakes him gently until Merlin is looking back at him. “We need to keep moving. Take anything of value.” Slowly, Merlin nods and with Arthur’s help, stands on still shaking knees. They quickly strip the dead of anything of use, rounding up one of their horses to use as a pack horse. Silent through the whole thing, they mount up and ride from the clearing.

~*~

Merlin had planned for them to follow the Grangia River once they came up to it, letting it lead them east and then south towards Camelot. Arthur decides it will be smarter to follow its riverbed for a distance east, erasing their trail and then cutting south again, throwing off their pursuers if there are anymore.

Merlin just follows, too cold and exhausted to do much else besides stay on the horse. Finding a shallow place to ford, they pick their way across. Arthur dismounts once they are across and some distance away to hide their trail again. Merlin looks at him and sees his own exhaustion mirrored back at him.

Pulling on the last dregs of strength, Merlin takes the lead this time, leading them through the barren forest, searching for a campsite. All he sees is barren rocks and thin trees as far as he can see. He continues on, making a path to ease Arthur’s horse’s way.

Merlin looses track of time as he leads the way. Memories of everything before he came to these blasted mountains swirling in his mind. All the events he went to, the people he met and danced with, his patrons, Kilgharrah, Freya, Alice, Gaius, and Gwaine. He just wants to get home.

The snow had started up a few hours back and by then it has thickened until all he can see it white. Dismounting, he leads Arthur and the pack horse by foot, one hand in front of him, feeling his ways slowly.

When his hand touches stone, he stops, wondering what it is. Feeling despair start to take over, Merlin feels along the wall, trying to distract himself. When his hand goes through air, he frowns. Reaching back, he feels at the stone, following it as it cuts sharply inward: a cave.

Going in a far as he dares, Merlin reaches for the last little flickers of his magic that have restored themselves. Breathing the light spell, he blinks in confusion as the cave opens up in front of him. It is deep, deeper than it looks from the outside. His light doesn’t even hit the back wall. Looking up, he can see a natural hole in the ceiling, a chimney of sorts.

Heart pounding, he goes back outside. Taking his horse’s reins, he leads them into the cave. When his hand starts to shake, Merlin realizes he’s still channeling energy into the light spell. Quickly, he pulls out one of the torches they took off the Pict and lights it, canceling the spell.

Running back outside, Merlin grabs what dry wood he can find, carrying it back inside. There is a little dip in the floor, where a fire could go and he piles the wood into it. Taking the torch, he thrusts it into the wood. Leaving it there for the rest of the wood to catch, Merlin goes to see to the horses, leaving Arthur to tend the fire.

By the time the horses are seen to, Arthur has the fire nice and hot, their things out and a pot of pottage already on the fire. Their things are already laid out, no need for a pine bough bed this time. They sit close together shivering and eating pottage and dried venison that they had taken from the Picts.

Once they are done eating, Merlin cleans the pot out and piles snow inside it, setting it over the fire to thaw and heat up. Pulling out the mead skin, he hands it to Arthur. Taking a jar of salve salvaged from the Picts, he sets about cleaning the cuts on Arthur’s cheek and head.

“I’d wondered why you kept this,” Merlin says softly as Arthur takes a gulp from it.

Arthur shakes his head, “The Picts drink it against the cold.”

Arching a brow, Merlin takes it and drinks a mouthful. It burns going down, but warms his belly quickly. Coughing slightly, Merlin hands it back. He looks at Arthur, “How bad are the wounds you’re hiding?”

Arthur smiles at his words, “That obvious, huh?”

“Stop being an idiot and show me,” Merlin tells him with a frown.

Without answering, Arthur strips off his upper garments, Merlin helping him with the chainmail. His torso is a mass of bruises. There is a small gash on his hip where the chain mail hadn’t protected him. It still bleeds sluggishly. “That needs to be sewn,” Merlin says softly.

“There’s a kit in the pack. Took it off one of the Picts,” Arthur says softly, taking the mead skin and drowning another gulp. Merlin isn’t a healer, he doesn’t know any spells, nor is he a physician or seamstress. By the time he is done, half the mead is down Arthur’s throat and Merlin’s black thread is holding his body together.

They don’t have any bandages, but Merlin still washes it gently with warm water, cleaning the dried blood off. They’re both exhausted. Arthur lies back, staring at the ceiling, Merlin next to him. “You did a good job,” Arthur says softly, looking over at him. “Through all of it—”

Merlin shakes his head, pressing his fingers to Arthur’s mouth, “I don’t want to talk about it.” Arthur just stares at him, eyes impossibly blue. Merlin leans forward and kisses him. It is soft, tentative, just their lips pressing together. Arthur’s arms snake around him, drawing him closer and Merlin kisses him harder.

Merlin helps him strip off their furs. Arthur’s hands are everywhere, sliding over skin, in his hair. Merlin shudders under the intensity of his gaze, falling into him, pressing as close as he can. Pulling the salve that is still nearby closer; Merlin sits back, preparing himself, Arthur watching him the entire time. Slicking Arthur’s cock, he slides down on it, Arthur’s large, warm hands a solid comfort as they brace his hips.

This has been long approaching and neither of them can last. Arthur comes first, stilling inside him, a deep groan torn from his throat. Merlin presses his face into Arthur shoulder as Arthur strips Merlin’s cock until Merlin comes with a soft cry.

He can feel tears running down his face, but he just presses his face harder into Arthur’s shoulder, Arthur’s arms around him. Finally, Merlin pulls back, looking down at Arthur. He smiles a little at Merlin and Merlin bends down to press a shaky kiss to his lips.

“You’re bleeding again,” Merlin whispers, looking down at Arthur’s hip where blood is welling up from between the stitches. Standing, Merlin grabs the cloth he had used before and wipes the blood and mess away. Chucking the cloth to the side, Merlin lays back down beside Arthur, letting the man pull him closer.

Arthur runs a finger over the collar still around Merlin’s throat. “You still have this,” he says quietly.

Merlin can’t look at him, shame welling up inside him at what the collar symbolizes. “I can’t bring myself to get rid of it,” he admits.

“We have nothing to our names,” Arthur says softly.

“I can’t,” Merlin says, still unwilling to look at Arthur. “I just can’t…” his words die off.

“You would rather we starve?” Arthur asks, voice growing hard. “You made me swallow my pride, it is time you did so as well.”

Merlin pulls in a shaky breath, “I can still feel her, her magic. She has her hooks in me.”

“Then rip them out, starting with this,” Arthur tells him. Taking another deep breath, Merlin nods. It takes the barest second for the clasp to be undone. The moment it is off, it feels like a weight has been lifted from him.

Arthur just holds him as silent tears run down his face. “I want to throw it at her feet,” Merlin admits some time later, when his tears have stopped.

“Then live and if ever the chance comes, I will not stop you,” Arthur tells him. He shifts and places the collar somewhere Merlin can’t see and doesn’t care. As Arthur starts to pull back, he looks down at Merlin’s back, where his Mearcung graces his skin, unfinished. “I’m sorry you never got this finished,” he says softly, tracing the lines inked into Merlin’s skin. “It’s beautiful, like you.”

Of all the things Merlin has heard, this has him blushing, as he turns to look up at Arthur. “Go to sleep, prat,” Merlin says softly, pressing a kiss to his lips. Arthur kisses him back and lays down, pulling Merlin down with him, pressing up close behind him.

~*~

The morning is gray and cold. The shiver as they dress and though there is a closeness that wasn’t there before, they don’t speak about what happened. Feelings and such must wait if they are to survive the still long, cold journey home.

Arthur is readying the horses and Merlin has wandered off, examining the cave when something catches his eye. Squinting, he can just make out a silvery sigil scratched into the cave wall. His eyes go wide as he recognizes it: the symbol of the Dragonlords.

Heart in his throat, Merlin keeps going further in, deeper until at last, he meets the back wall of the cave. Disappointed when it doesn’t lead anywhere, Merlin is about to turn away when he spots a small hollow at the base of the wall. Crouching down, he looks inside.

There, nestled amongst rocks and leaves that had been blown in over the years, is an oddly shaped rock, large on one end, and tapering until almost a point at the top. It takes him a second to realize what exactly he is looking at, recalling an image from Kilgharrah’s book he had seen. With shaking fingers, Merlin pulls it out slowly, heart racing. “Merlin!” Arthur calls out, close behind where Merlin is crouched.  
  
“Arthur,” Merlin says softly, awed by what he has found.

“What is that?” Arthur asks, coming up beside him. He limps a little, but otherwise is fine for the fight they faced yesterday.

“It’s…it’s a dragon’s egg,” Merlin says, looking up at Arthur with wide eyes.

“Are you sure?” he asks, eyeing the white egg. It is warm under Merlin’s palms, the magic inside it pulsing like a heartbeat.

“That book you found in Kilgharrah’s library, the one written in Dragon’s tongue. I looked at it and it was like something in me shifted and I could read it. It talked about the last warlock being a Dragonlord and how all warlocks are descended from the same line. I…I think I was meant to find this,” Merlin says softly.

“We need to get moving,” Arthur says after a few moments of silence. Nodding, Merlin stands, cradling the egg in his arms. It’s quick work to wrap the egg in one of the cloaks and store it in a saddle bag. Finished, Merlin nods to Arthur and follows him out of the cave. They’re headed home.

~*~

No one else appears to be following them. With fresher mounts, they press harder, fighting the weather that lashes at them, stopping only when the light is about to fade and falling into an exhausted sleep soon afterwards.

They encounter no more people, though they spot more steadings. Spying the human habitation well in advance, they skirt around them, keeping a large distance just in case. They spot wolves once, but the pack is small and in the distance, but they still keep watch that night, listening to them howl. They even run into an old boar rooting in the snow. It gives a loud squeal and it seems like it might charge, but changes its mind, rushing into the brush and disappearing from sight.

Eventually, they reach the Kadian Mountains also called the White Mountains by the locals. The mountain range separates the five kingdoms from the north and Picts. It is not easy to cross into the five kingdoms so they follow the mountains east, searching for Highpass.

They travel for a day, camping at the mountains feet that night. In the morning, they find the pass and a sight that has their hopes dashed. Merlin had thought Arrœk might do this and when Arthur returns from scouting the pass with a grim face, he knows he was right.

From their vantage point above, he can make out the Pict, nearly twenty Ar raiders, encamped in the pass, the only thing standing between them and home. Merlin doesn’t even look at Arthur. Even with his magic back somewhat, they couldn’t take on all of them.

“What do we do?” Merlin asks.

Arthur looks at him and then glances up at the mountain above them. “You can’t be serious,” Merlin says.

“It’s the only way,” he says and Merlin knows he’s right. It still doesn’t stop him from swearing colorfully under his breath.

Tugging his furs tighter around his shoulders, Merlin sighs, “Fine, but I hope you do realize that if we die, I’m blaming you.” Arthur just sends a smirk his way, slowly backing away from their ledge. Merlin glances down at the Picts and shudders before following Arthur.

Merlin sits huddled in a small lean-to made from snow and fallen boulders as Arthur goes back the way they came, searching for a way up. He comes back as the sun starts to set, the horse floundering in the snow with exhaustion. He’s found a trail, more just a goat path, up the mountain, but it’s the best he can find.

They ride to it and camp at the base of the trail. They dare the smallest fire they can. Merlin even mutters a small spell to keep it going. It keeps them somewhat warm, enough to keep from freezing. They spend the night huddled together, conserving warmth.

They start to climb in the morning. About half way up, they are forced to dismount and lead the horses, the trail too treacherous to be safe. They lose Arthur’s mount on the first day, the poor beast going over the edge with a scream. They lose half their things, though Merlin is glad it wasn’t his horse, the dragon egg still tucked away in his saddle bag.

Arthur forces them to keep going. “We have enough for two more days,” is all he says. They lose the pack horse the next day to a misstep. Just as they reach the summit and start to head down. The horse steps onto a pocket of snow covering up a hidden crevice. Its front foreleg snaps. Arthur is forced to put it down.

They pile most of their things onto Merlin’s horse. Making a make shift pack, Merlin shifts the dragon egg to it, carrying it and anything of value onto his back. Eventually though, they make it to the base of the mountain and finally reach Camelot.

It is too much hope to think that they could go undetected for long. Relieved to be alive, they make their way into the pine forest at the mountains base and make camp, lighting a fire. But with the Picts raiding, the patrols are more frequent. Escetian soldiers find them.

They hear the patrol too late, Arthur kicking snow onto their fire in a hopes of remaining unseen. But it is too late and the patrol rides up to them, circling. Merlin glances at their banner and sees the Escetian flag, its dull green background with the black snake and underneath it, the banner of a different house, not D’Alene. Merlin’s heart plummets at the sight.

Arthur starts to bow, arm across his chest, reaching for his sword. With a hiss, Merlin jumps at him, pushing him down before the knight can give them away. Better to keep word of a knight and his companion travelling the border from spreading.

One of them steps forward, sword drawn. “Identify yourselves.”

Merlin pushes up to look at the man. “My lord, I’m sorry. We mean no harm. Do we trespass here?” Merlin asks, trying to pull of a simple peasant look.

The lowers his sword and shaking his head, he answers, “No lad, yer not. But it isn’t safe along these mountains. Who are you and where are you bound?”

“William of Ledford and this is my cousin Fadden,” Merlin says. “Our village,” Merlin swallows heavily, “Our village was destroyed by Picts some days past. We…my cousin took a blow to the head and I hid him in the woods. They didn’t find us. We are heading for Camelot. We’ve some family there who might take us in.”

Merlin hopes against hope that these men aren’t familiar with all the villages in the area. He knows the village he named was destroyed by Picts some time back from a report he’d read.

“It’s all right lad. You thought we were Picts when yo saw us,” he says, relaxing and sheathing his sword.

Merlin nods, “You could have been. My cousin got scared,” Merlin says softly.

The leader watches them from his horse. Dismounting, he walks up to them. “There’s nothing for you in Camelot,” he says. “The winter has been harsh and the capital is fever-stricken. Ride on to Cholhn. The Marquise won’t turn away refugees. Gordon, ride on ahead and tell them we’re coming in. Be sure to tell them everything.”

The rider starts to turn his horse southward. Arthur moves before anyone can stop him, dagger out and pointed at the leader’s throat. “Dismount, now!” Arthur says with a growl.

They follow Arthur’s order, though they glare with fury at him and Merlin. He doesn’t even need to look at Merlin for Merlin to move. Quickly, he stows their gear to Merlin’s horse, shouldering the makeshift pack.

“Two horse, scatter the rest,” Arthur says, slowly back away towards Merlin. Merlin grabs the reins of two horses and smacking the rumps of the other horses, scatters them.

“Me…William, mount up,” Arthur says, never taking his eyes off of the warriors standing frozen as their leader is held hostage.

“You won’t get away. We’ll come after you,” the leader says softly to Arthur.

“Our kin in Caernarvon will protect us. You’ve no right to detain us,” Merlin says, looking down at the man after mounting.

“Quiet, William. Get out of here.” Merlin nods and wheeling his mounts, leads their pack horse away at a fast run. They stumble through the woods until coming out on a large road, Caernarvon Way. It leads through the city and onwards towards Camelot. Arthur catches up with them half a mile out and the ride, pressing their mounts.

Knowing the patrol is not far behind them, Merlin glances about. Seeing a side road, he points to it. They flee down it, hoping the patrol will continue down the main road.

Further down the road, they come across a nomadic party, the wagon rumbling along. They nearly run into them, the road is that narrow as they go around a bend. Arthur shouts something, though Merlin doesn’t catch it. A little girl pokes her head out of the wagon. The man driving it turns to look at them.

Arthur pulls up beside him. “Eardstapa, please forgive the intrusion,” Arthur says, bowing slightly in the saddle.

“Where are you two headed in such a rush?” he asks, looking up at them. “If I’m not mistaken, you are a Knight of the Round Table.”

“I am, sir. Please, we are being chase by men who would harm my charge. We have news that must reach the capital,” Arthur says and Merlin jerks, uneasy at Arthur for giving so much away.

“Your horse will not go much further,” he comments.

“Shelter us, Eardstapa. They will not think to look for us in your wagon. They think we are Pictish spies, but we are free Albans that have escaped from captivity with information of great importance.”

“As you already said,” he turns to look at his wife. “What say you Mari?”

A woman steps out from the wagon, looking up at them. “Girls, make room for them,” she calls out.

~*~

“How do you know these people?” Merlin asks as they are whisked into the wagon, their gear stowed with them. Merlin cradles the pack in his arms.

“The nomads are similar to the Druids, following the Old Religion. They travel where the signs send them. The knights treat with them, often using them as couriers and trade with them,” Arthur says absentmindedly.

They had turned the stolen horses loose, sending them off in different directions to find their own way back home. The girls become enamored with Merlin Pictish horse, begging to keep it. Nodding, they tie it behind the wagon stripped of anything to give it away.

The patrol comes upon them half an hour later. Arthur and Merlin are still in their hiding place in the wagon hidden under skeins of wool and cotton, straining to hear what is said. It turns out Mari is a dyer, her husband Jeran a weaver.

The patrol asks them questions, looking at the horse behind the wagon. When asked, Jeran says they found the horse wandering, stripped of everything. The men search the wagon quickly, only looking in a few places. Satisfied that the nomads aren’t hiding anything, the men wheel their mounts and head back the way they come. Merlin sighs in relief, sagging back against the wall of the wagon.

They travel with the nomads for three days. They ask no questions, sharing what little they have. Jen and Kara, their daughters, grow fond of Arthur. They play together as the wagon drives closer to Camelot. They look at Merlin’s eyes and see his connection to the Old Religion. They treat him with a respect fitting of a king. It makes Merlin nervous. Eventually though, they part ways.

Some miles from Camelot, Jeran drops them off. The family has no wish to enter the city with rumors of the sickness. Merlin and Arthur don’t blame them and thank them for what they’ve already done. Waving as the wagon pulls away, Merlin’s horse following behind; they turn south and the road that will lead them at last to home.

It isn’t long before they crest a hill and Camelot comes into view in all its sprawling glory. The white castle, ever a shining beckon of home beckons them onward. Swallowing, Merlin turns to look at Arthur. They’ve made it.

Although still dressed in furs, they had stowed most of their clothing and things in their pack. The winter here is nothing compared to what they had faced. The ease from the last few days fades as they draw closer. They have been gone too long. They have no idea what awaits their return.

Merlin wonders who they can go to. Petit is sure to be with his fleet and they’ll have as much luck trying to get to Morgana or Juliana as they did last time. Merlin doesn’t know who to trust at the moment, who isn’t a part of Nimueh’s network.

The only person he can think of to go to is Gwaine. He tells Arthur. “You don’t like it,” Merlin says softly at the frown on Arthur’s face.

“There is no one else to turn to, no patron or friend of Kilgharrah?” Arthur asks, staring ahead as they walk.

Merlin shakes his head. “Arthur we aren’t talking about a simple favor. Whomever we go to will have our lives in their hands. I trust Gwaine with mine. No one else.”

“And how much gold do you think he could get for it?” Arthur asks, bitter.

Merlin grabs Arthur by the arm and turns him to face him. “Gwaine has been my friend since I was small. He never asked for anything and has been true no matter what. When Dillon de la Escetia was executed, he was the one who gave me money to make an offering. Did you know I was Nimueh’s farewell gift to Dillon before she betrayed him?”

Arthur shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, looking away.

“If you have a better Idea, then say it, but I will not hear you speak badly of Gwaine,” Merlin says just as softly.

“I could try the Captain of the Knights. He is oath sworn and can be trusted,” Arthur says.

“Are you sure? You disappeared from the city with your charge leaving behind the slaughtered household of Kilgharrah nó Emrys. Do you think they will believe you? Will they welcome you?” Merlin asks harshly, knowing his words are a low blow, but he needs to say them.

“No one would dare. And besides, no knight would believe them,” Arthur hisses harshly, glaring at Merlin.

“If I thought of it Arthur, what makes you think someone else wouldn’t? It’s easier to believe this is a simple murder and not some deep conspiracy to over throw the five kingdoms,” Merlin says wearily, looking towards home.

Arthur grunts at his words. “Fine, we’ll do this your way. But first, we still have to get through the gates.”

~*~

It is perhaps too easy getting through the gates into the city itself. The guards stop them at a distance, asking their names. Merlin gives false ones. The guards grunt in disinterest and ask them to stick out their tongue. Confused, they comply.

Edging close enough to see, one of the guards nods and waves them through. It seems the sickness rumor is true. Despite the cold and sickness, there are still people out. Trying to remain undetected, Arthur and Merlin stick to the smaller streets.

By the time they reach the lower city where Gwaine is sure to be, the sun has set, only a few lingering spears of light left in the sky. They stand across the street from a familiar inn. Merlin’s throat closes up for a moment as memories well up in his mind. He desperately wants to go inside.

Shaking himself, Merlin turns to Arthur. “We can’t go in there. With the way tongues wag, word of us will reach the castle before we even get close,” Merlin admits.

“Do you have another plan?” Arthur asks, glancing at Merlin. His blonde fringe hangs over his eyes, he needs a haircut. They both do.

Taking a breath, Merlin nods and quickly lays it out for him. Gwaine’s stables are quiet as they enter. They take the two stable boys by surprise, Arthur near frightening them to death with his sword out and his wild appearance. “Do you work for Gwaine?” Arthur asks harshly.

They both nod. Merlin steps forward. “Good, I want you to do something and your friend here will live. Find Gwaine and ask him to come here, quietly. Tell him an old friend needs his help. If he asks who, say the one with stars in his eyes. Got it?” Merlin asks as he looks at the smaller of the two.

He nods rapidly, “Old friend, stars in eyes, got it.”

“Good. If you tell anyone but Gwaine, your friend here is dead.” The boy’s eyes go wide, the whites large and nods again before scurrying off in search of Gwaine.

They wait for Gwaine to appear in a tense silence, only the occasional whimper from the other stable hand making any noise. Finally, Merlin hears someone approaching. He would know Gwaine’s footsteps anywhere.

He whistles as he strolls across the cobble stones to the stable. Slipping in he shuts the door and turns to look at them. “Merlin?” Gwaine’s voice is all it takes.

Merlin throws himself at Gwaine, the man looking dumbfounded down at Merlin, arms holding him up. Merlin can’t stop the tears from coming, weeks of terror and grief letting go. He presses his face into Gwaine’s chest, muffling his sobs.

By the time Merlin has gained control of himself, Arthur has lowered his sword, though he still remains on guard, eyeing the two stable hands. Seeing where Arthur is looking, Gwaine motions the two stable hands forward. Letting Merlin go slightly, he digs in his belt purse and pulls out two silver pieces. “You two saw nothing tonight. If you speak of any of this, I’ll know and hunt you down.” The nod and take the money, scurrying out of the stable.

Looking back up, he squints at Arthur, “Knight?”

“Gwaine,” Arthur mutters.

Merlin steps back from Gwaine, running a shaky hand over his face, wiping away any lingering tears. “Do they think…?” Merlin can’t finish his sentence as Gwaine looks at him, eyes saddened.

“You were tried and convicted despite not being here for the murder of Kilgharrah nó Emrys and his household,” Gwaine admits.

~*~

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says as Gwaine finishes telling them all that has happened since their disappearance. The rumors about the fever have been true, claiming Gwaine’s mother as one of the many casualties. He hasn’t taken on any new tenants until the sickness passes. He tells them the reason the guards were checking their tongues at the gate is that is shows first as dark spot on the tongue.

Gwaine waves him off, though Merlin can still see the grief reflected in his eyes. He heats up water for a bath for them, sending out for food. It isn’t much, but to be clean and warm and safe is more than Merlin could imagine in the last few weeks.

As they eat, they take turns telling Gwaine all that has happened to them, Gwaine not speaking until they run out of words, despite learning of D’Alene’s betrayal. “He wouldn’t,” Gwaine says vehemently, despite all their evidence.

“He willing to try though,” Arthur says softly. “He has no idea the numbers that Arrœk can summon up though.”

“We need to speak to Morgana, or someone who can reach her,” Merlin says, looking at Gwaine.

“Your lives are forfeit if anyone knows you are here in Camelot,” Gwaine says.

“Why would they believe that? What could we gain from killing Kilgharrah?” Arthur asks, setting his goblet down hard.

“There’s a rumor that Duc Kay l’Ector paid you a large sum to allow his men into the house to settle the score with Kilgharrah. He’s not been charged, but Agravaine’s assassination is not helping his cause,” Gwaine tells them.

“But I wouldn’t—,” Merlin starts.

“Don’t you think I know that? I knew the instant I heard that it was a lie. I told anyone who would listen. There were others rallying to your name, Uriens, Alice, Gaius, even the Knight Captain. But the council wanted a conviction and you weren’t here to defend your case,” Gwaine says, rubbing at his face in frustration.

“Nimueh?” Merlin asks.

“If she had any hand in it, I can’t see it. She’s kept her hand close to her chest for the time being,” Gwaine mumbles.

Merlin can only snort in a morbid sense of humor, “She already played that card on Dillon. It wouldn’t do to play it twice in a row.”

“True,” Gwaine says, standing and clearing the table. Turning back to Merlin, he leans his hip against the table, looking down at him. “Anything you need is at your disposal. I know all manners of people to get something through to whomever you like. The only problem is none of them can be trusted to keep their mouths closed.”

“You say my Captain protested my innocence?” Gwaine nods. “I could ride to him, see if he is willing to help,” Arthur offers, though he frowns at his own words. “Could you provide a mount?” Gwaine nods again.

“No,” Merlin says softly. “It would take too long and it is too risky.” Merlin frowns and then jumps as an idea comes to him. “Gwaine, could you get something to Juliana de Listinoise?” Merlin asks, looking up at his friend.

“Yes, easy. Mayhap a love letter, a message from an admirer? I can get it there, but it may not be sealed when she gets it,” he admits.

“That’s fine. I’ll write the real message in Hibernian. If any of your contacts can read it, I’ll hand myself back over to the Picts,” Merlin mutters. Nodding in thanks as Gwaine brings him a sheet of parchment, ink and a quill, Merlin sets about crafting a letter. He writes a quick letter of admiration and just underneath it, he writes his real message in Hibernian, making it look like lines from a poem.

_The last student of the dragon awaits you with the unofficial lord of Wyvern Street begging aid in the name of the Queen’s Draca, her only born._

Merlin reads it aloud and Arthur can only stare at him, “You speak and write Hibernian as well?”

Merlin shrugs, “Not as well as I would like.” Hoping that he wrote the note correctly, he seals it with wax and hands it over to Gwaine.

“I know someone going to the castle later tonight. It should be in Juliana’s hand by tomorrow, even if I have to bribe half of the lower city to get it there.” With a hand on Merlin shoulder and a nod to Arthur, Gwaine walks out, throwing his cloak on.

It is silent for a few moments after the man’s departure. “You were right to trust him,” Arthur admits.

“Thank you for trusting me,” Merlin says softly.

“We should get some rest,” Arthur says, standing with a groan.

Merlin shakes his head, “I’ll wait for Gwaine to come back. You go sleep.” He yawns despite his words.

“I’m sure you have much to catch up on,” Arthur says stiffly, starting to turn away.

“Arthur,” Merlin calls. The knight stops and turns back to look at him, “Whatever happens to us…I just want you to know that you kept your promise. You got us home, safely. Thank you.” Arthur nods and bows before turning away again and walking out of the room.

Merlin has started to doze at the table by the time Gwaine returns. As the door shuts, Merlin jumps, heart in his throat before he realizes where he is. “How’d it go?” Merlin asks, rubbing at his eyes.

“You should be in bed,” Gwaine says instead. At Merlin’s glare, he sighs, “Fine and Juliana should have the letter by tomorrow unless anything should happen. She was sick you know, with the fever. She has Gaius looking after her, and she’s on the mend.” He steps forward, settling into a chair. “You look like hell, Merlin.”

“I know,” Merlin says, running a hand through his ragged hair. His hands are still pale, but red roughened from work and chafed. Dirt is engrained under the nails and scratches crisscross his hand. “But I can light a fire from a single sodden log in the middle of a snow storm,” he admits with dry humor.

Gwaine is standing after that, stepping around the table. Merlin can only hold onto him as the man wraps his arms around the warlock. “I’d thought I lost you,” Gwaine mutters into his hair. “If I’d known you were still alive, I would have fought harder for you.”

“I know,” Merlin mutters against his shoulder. “I’m sorry about your mother,” Merlin says, feeling tears in the corners of his eyes.

“I miss her,” Gwaine admits and Merlin can hear the clicking of his throat when he swallows. Sighing, Gwaine pushes Merlin back, looking at him. “You should sleep.”

“Good night,” Merlin says softly, smiling faintly and nods. Pressing a small kiss to his brow, Merlin leaves Gwaine in the kitchen.

In bed, Merlin lies there, exhausted, but missing something. It takes him a moment to realize exactly what he misses…Arthur. He falls asleep before he can think any more on it.

~*~

Sleeping through the morning, Merlin wakes slowly. Stumbling out of the room, he only finds Arthur seated at the table, Gwaine gone off on some errand.

Gwaine returns soon after with clothing for them. They both bathe again and dress, even if the clothing doesn’t fit exactly. Gwaine even sits them down and trims their hair. Merlin feels better and better. Gwaine suggests that they burn the clothing they had worn, wools and furs from their captivity and flight. “No, it is the only proof we have,” Merlin says. Shrugging, Gwaine nods.

Turning away, Gwaine turns to the window and tenses. “There’s a carriage pulling up outside.” Merlin and Arthur both tense, looking at each other, an entirely silent conversation passing between them before looking up at Gwaine.

“Go into the back room. There’s a door there you can escape through. If it’s not Juliana, I’ll hold them off as long as I can.” Nodding the two slip into the back room, shutting the door, ears pressed to the wood, listening as someone knocks at the door.

Merlin can hear Gwaine’s voice faintly as he greets his visitor. Then another familiar voice, feminine and melodious: it is Juliana.

Merlin opens the door and steps through, looking at Juliana as she pulls back her hood. Her face is pale form sickness, but she is still the same as he remembers. Walking forward, Merlin hugs her, the poetess hugging him back fiercely.

“Juliana, we need to speak to Morgana,” Merlin says quickly, pulling back. “To Uriens and Admiral Petit, and anyone else we can trust. The Picts are planning to invade and D’Alene plans betrayal—,” Merlin babbles out.

“Easy, child,” she says, squeezing his shoulders. “I know you are not a traitor. I’m taking you to an audience with Morgana. Can you do that?” she asks looking at him.

Merlin stiffens in shock, looking at Juliana in disbelief. “I’ll be with him,” Arthur says, coming up beside Merlin.

“As will I,” Gwaine says, stepping up on Merlin’s other side. Merlin can only glance between them and feel his panic ebb away at his friend’s words.

Slowly, Merlin steps back and Juliana lets him go. “I…,” Merlin swallows, “I’m ready.”

~*~

The carriage ride up to the castle is silent; Merlin peeking out through the curtains as it steadily draws closer. Arthur mostly tells their story, Merlin adding a bit here and there, but mostly lost in thought on what he needs to say. Juliana believes him, but would Morgana de la Pendragon believe him?

They ride into a little used side courtyard of the eastern wing of the castle. The guards in red cloaks and silver mail help them out. Merlin looks closely and sees a small ring on each pinky finger of them. “They’re Morgana’s personal guard, handpicked and completely loyal to her. They can be trusted,” Juliana says in a lowered voice to him.

The guards search them for weapons. Gwaine hands over a dagger, and Arthur slowly relinquishes his sword. Merlin can only protest as they try to take the Pictish dagger in the sack that holds the only proof of their journey. “I’ll hold onto it,” Juliana says, nodding to the guards.

They nod and allow them through. Merlin blinks as the light dims and it takes him a second to realize where he is and who exactly is in the room. He has seen Morgana from a distance, but up close, she is still as coolly beautiful as he remembers. Eyes like still silent pools, her pale skin glows in the candle light, her dark locks coifed and pinned up in a fashionable style. The green dress is in fashion as well, though the dagger at her waist isn’t.

She is seated in a small throne-like chair, watching them calmly as they approach. The knight behind her shifts, keeping his eyes on them as they approach as well and if Arthur makes a noise at the sight of the man, he remains composed.

“Your highness,” Juliana says, curtsying.

Morgana nods, “Who have you brought?” Merlin looks at her and can see that she already knows who they are.

“Merlin nó Emrys, Knight Arthur du Bois,” Morgana’s eyes briefly flick to Arthur and then back to Juliana, “and Gwaine de Ganis,” Juliana finishes, using Gwaine’s full name. How she knew it, Merlin doesn’t know, but he hears Gwaine’s snort from behind his left shoulder.

Morgana nods again to Juliana and then fixes her eyes on Merlin, “You are accused of killing Kilgharrah nó Emrys, a man oath sworn to the Pendragon crown. How do you plead, warlock?”

Merlin straightens, “In the name of the Queen’s Draca, her only born, I bring this message. When the Red Hart rules in Hibernia, the Fisher King will accede.” The vaulting room echoes with his words.

Morgana is silent for a moment, before nodding again, “I already know this from the Admiral. Is that all you have to say?”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, I am here to say I am innocent. Petit’s messenger found Arthur and I at the tattooists and asked us to deliver the message. He said that the house was being watched and so was he. When we got there, everyone was dead, except…except Freya. She was still alive. She died in my arms,” Merlin says softly. Shaking himself, Merlin continues. “You have been betrayed your highness by those you have placed much trust in. Duc Valiant d’Alene plots for the throne and conspires with Selises Arrœk, the Pictish warlord and plans an invasion. They plan to betray D’Alene. They will succeed unless we can stop them,” Merlin says, looking Morgana in the eye.

Morgana’s face gives nothing away to her thoughts, though it is paler than before. “You charge Duc D’Alene, hero of Camelot and Escetia with this crime?” she asks.

Merlin shakes his head, “Not just him. Nimueh de l’Isle as well, who is his ally. She was the one who betrayed Kilgharrah and it is her letters to Arrœk that have assured his victory.”

Morgana is silent as she studies them. Finally she stirs, “Tell me everything you claim to have seen.” And so they do, starting from their desperate flight to the house from the tattooists and to their escape and flight from the Picts and their exhausted return back to Camelot. Morgana sits silent through it all. They show her their proof, the clothing and weapons that they had with them. Gwaine testifies to the condition that he found them in, half-starved and filthy from their journey.

“And this is all you have to offer? A wild tale and some stinking hides?” she asks.

“Summon Nimueh and question her. I swear that this is the truth,” Merlin say, chin lifted.

A guard slips back though the far door and, coming close, says something low into Morgana’s ear. Nodding, she waves him away. “Nimueh is unfortunately not in residence. “But explain to me why she let you live? No L’Isle would be fool enough to let someone like you live.”

Merlin is lost on how to explain this to her. He can’t fight the flush rising on his cheeks, “Um…”

Merlin wants to bury his face in his hands when Gwaine speaks up behind him, “Your highness that is a long tale and not fit for polite company.”

“Oh,” Morgana says and to Merlin’s amazement, a flush springs to her cheeks faintly.

Arthur steps forward, bowing, “Your highness, I don’t think Nimueh wanted to kill and upset the balance, but she knew our chances of survival were slim. That we not only escaped but made it back here would never have crossed her mind. We only made it back because of the Balance and with what skills we possess.”

“So you say. Is there nothing else?” she asks.

“They have my word,” Juliana says, stepping forward. “I knew Kilgharrah and I know he trusted his wards with his life.”

“Yes, with his life, but not with his secrets. Tell me, did he ever tell you he was oath sworn to protect not only the Queen’s Draca, but me as well?”

Merlin’s heart clenches and the anger that has slowly been building finally bursts forth, “No, but if he had, he would not be dead.” Arthur lays a hand on his shoulder and he shrugs it off. He needs to say this. “Kilgharrah taught and used me and kept me in ignorance to protect me. If had told me, the person closest to Nimueh, perhaps I could have saved him from Nimueh’s game, but he didn’t and he is dead,” says harshly, wiping at the hot tears prickling his eyes.

“If you want proof, question the guard,” Merlin says, shoulders bowing slightly as the anger finally runs out of steam.

“He’s right. We asked sought an audience with you and Juliana the night Kilgharrah was murdered and were turned away. I’m sure one of them remembers seeing a knight and a warlock,” Arthur says, stepping forward.

Nodding to the guard from before she tells him, “Go, but be discreet.” The guard leaves and as the door shuts, the rigidity that Morgana holds herself up with lets go and she sinks into her seat, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “You are speaking the truth, aren’t you?” Merlin can only nod, understanding her need for questioning. To discover a plot of invasion, impending war and treason all in one swoop is the worst thing a ruler could hear.

Finally, she straightens, her face composed, her eyes steel. “And Duc L’Ector?”

“As far as I know, he had nothing to do with it. He and Kilgharrah had already settled everything between them,” Merlin says, wanting to sit now that everything is finished. He forces himself to keep standing.

“Is it true that he killed Agravaine de la Bois?” she asks.

Merlin shrugs, “I believe it is. He was the one who killed his cousin, the late Queen. Kilgharrah used the knowledge to create a truce between them. I believe that he hoped to keep the same fate from happening to you as well.”

“And you got the information for him,” Morgana says.

Merlin shakes his head, “I wasn’t alone in this. There was another. Freya nó Emrys was the one who got the real information. She died trying to protect Kilgharrah.”

“You grieve for them both. I wish I could have known him better,” she says. Sighing, she stood. “Come with me.”

They followed her, the four of them and her knight. Walking through a set of door, she motions for the knight on duty to step aside. They crowd around the door to peer inside. Inside, Uther de la Pendragon lay on a canopied bed, face ashen and lax, only the occasional twitch giving evidence to his life, “My father.”

“He suffered a stroke during the winter. I have been ruling in his name and so far the council and nobles have allowed it.” They step back and the door is shut. They follow her back into the room from before. “But with war coming, I don’t know how long I can keep in control before someone tries to wrest it from me. I don’t know how much longer he has. Perhaps it is a mercy that he is here and does not have to worry about the realm anymore,” Morgana muses.

Sighing softly, Merlin shuts his eyes, feeling for the magic he can grasp now. As he lets go of his surrounding, his magic flows from him. It is like the time at the altar, when he and Gwaine had gone to make an offering. He can feel the magic everywhere and he can feel the Balance. Opening his eyes, he can see the lines of fate, each shining thread connected to someone. Weaving through them is one that is fading. It leads to through the doors that they just left.

Turning, he can see Morgana and the others watching him, eyes wide. “Soon,” Merlin says and his voice seems to echo. “The king’s hold on this world is fading and he will pass within the next few days.” Merlin staggers as the magic lets go of him and Arthur grabs his arm, holding him up.

“You can see the future?” Morgana asks, her eyes keen.

Merlin shakes his head, “I only saw the lines of fate. His is dim and will go out soon.”

“Oh,” she says. “I have dreams, of things that I’ve not seen before. Sometimes they come to pass, most often, they don’t,” Morgana admits and for a moment, she looks like the young woman she is, uncertain about life and the future. It’s gone in a blink, her composed mask back in place. “You will say nothing of this,” she tells the knight behind her. The man bows in reply, saying nothing.

Just then, the guard she had sent comes back in, another guard in tow. He takes one look at Arthur and Merlin and his eyes widen, “That’s them, him in the knight’s black and him in the blue-black cloak. They had come asking for the King’s Poet. But—”

“Thank you,” Morgana says cutting him off. “If you speak of this, you will be committing treason which is punishable by death.”

The guard gulps and nods before bowing to Morgana. The guard sees the man out. Morgana sighs, rubbing her eyes tiredly. “Who do I trust? What do I do?” She seems to realize that they are still there. “Forgive me my ingratitude. The crown is thankful for the news you have brought. You will be cleared of all charges, I can promise that.”

“No,” Merlin says and the others turn to stare at him. Swallowing, Merlin continues. “Your highness, you cannot. D’Alene is still your closest enemy. If he gets word of us, he will be forced to strike prematurely. He might win and even if we hold him off, we still have the Pict invasion as well.”

“Then you will still be named a murderer, you and your companions,” she says flatly.

“Then so be it. Gwaine’s part is unknown and he is safe. As for Arthur,” Merlin glances at the knight.

“I have already broken my vows to get us here safe. This will be but one more thing,” Arthur murmurs with a bow.

“I am sorry to put you in this position,” Morgana says. “But you are too valuable to place into hiding. So as of now, I am placing the three of you under the custody of the throne.”

~*~

Two days later, Uther de la Pendragon dies. They are confined to the castle and only gain some news from the guards watching over them. Gaius is sent to look them over and this brings about a round of tearful greeting and explanation.

Gaius sees to Arthur’s half healed wounds and orders them a rich diet to counter the deprivation they took as they fled. They hear the mourning bells tolling, but for the most part, Merlin, Arthur and Gwaine are alone.

Morgana comes to Merlin the night before her coronation. “You know,” she says and Merlin knows what she is asking about. Merlin nods. “Does he know?’ she asks, looking at Arthur across the room.

Merlin shakes his head, “My lady, even if he did know, I do not think he would want the crown. He has spent too much time free of politics and the pressures of the crown to want to take on that mantel.”

“It is odd to think he is my brother, if only half,” she says softly.

“Mayhap one day you should tell him. He’s never had any family and I am sure he would welcome the thought of a sister, even a half one,” Merlin says with a soft smile. “It isn’t easy, being alone,” Merlin says with a wistful twist to his mouth as he watches Arthur as well.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Don’t be. My mother and father may have given me up, but I still had family, an odd one though it was. I wouldn’t have changed it for the world,” Merlin says with a small smile. “Good night, my lady,” Merlin says with a bow and walks away.

The coronation is a quick affair. With seats missing from the council and people missing from the nobles due to the sickness, many are unsure of the new, untried Queen. They learn that many hadn’t shown from the north, saying it is still uncertain on the border and they dared not leave it undefended.

Nimueh, supposedly amongst her kin, is a glaring absence from the castle. Merlin spends too much time brooding on her and what she had done to him. Kilgharrah and Freya’s blood is on her hands and yet he still couldn’t stop himself when she got her hands on him. She still had hooks in him, despite his anguish and hatred of her.

Eventually, Arthur becomes fed up with Merlin’s festering. “If you keep this up, you will only keep hurting yourself. If you wish to even the Balance, then go to the temple and seek atonement. They will not turn you away.”

Morgana grants him permission to leave, hooded and with her guard. The clearing is as quiet as he remembers. A priestess is already waiting for him as he gains the top of the stairs. The priestess leads him from the altar, down a hidden stairway. A small stream winds through the trees. There, he cleanses himself as she chants softly, incense smoke filling his nose. 

Finished, she hands him simple pieces of clothing, handspun. The rough material chafes against his damp skin. She nods, and taking his hand, leads him to the altar. Kneeling before it, Merlin places his offering, gold and silver pieces, into the slight dip.

Sitting there, he rings the bell and closes his eyes, letting his magic go free. He isn’t sure how long he is under, his magic and soul connected to the Balance and the world around him. But when he opens his eyes, he feels lighter and tears stain his cheeks.

Back at the castle, Merlin is calm, empty of the guilt and anger he had been carrying with him. He sleeps dreamlessly that night for the first time in a long time.

“The Queen is retiring to her mother’s estates for a fortnight to mourn,” Gwaine tells them later. “She’s calling up a council and we’re to attend.”

~*~

Merlin is surprised by who Morgana calls for. Besides the three of them, and Juliana, there is Gaius and Alice, who cries when she sees Merlin, Uriens, and the Knight Captain, Leon Gannes, Morgana’s personal knight. There are many others as well, Kay l’Ector, King Bayard de la Mercia with his son Bedwyr, both with their own knight. There is also King Godwyn de la Acestir and his brother Azreal. There is Geoffrey de Monmouth, one of the older nobles and royal archivist. 

Mithian de Caernarvon, the Lady of Caernarvon is there as well, along with Pellinore de Dieu, the Comte de Dieu and Royal Commander. His son, Persant de Dieu, the steward of the Escetian throne is there as well. There are two that Merlin does not know, but has heard of: Gareth de Highpass, the Comte de Highpass and Morganor l’Galdren, Duc l’Galdren.

What surprises Merlin the most is that Morgana calls on the heads of the Moonlight Court. Dame Fors and her second Damas of the Fire Court are the first to arrive. Dame Edward Orkney of Earth Court and his second Priamus Avoutres arrive next from the Escetian branch of the Moonlight Court. 

Soon to follow are Dame Maliasa Bulor and her second Sarah Hans of the Water Court from the Tintagel branch. Dame Dinas Seneschal of the Wind Court and his second Gilli Clarence arrive with Godwyn from Acestir. The last is Dame Hannah Winchelsea of the Lightning Court who arrives with her second Sophia Sidhe.

Merlin spends the morning before the council meeting hiding in his room, his magic going haywire with so many powerful magic users so close. Arthur is with him, trying to avoid all the knights that have arrived with the kings and nobles. He knows many of them and doesn’t want to face them.

But, eventually, they must make their presence known. The room is crowded when they walk in behind Morgana. Those who know who they are instantly fall silent and the rest soon follow, staring at the new arrivals.

“Merlin?” Uriens voice carries through the silent room and Merlin looks at the man he has known for so long. Merlin smiles as the man comes forward, taking him by the shoulders to look him over. “You’re alive!”

Duc L’Ector comes up as well, looking them over. “I hope you brought them to prove my innocence, Morgana,” he says looking at her.

“That is one of the reasons, but not the most pressing,” Morgana says.

“You bring two condemned murderers here, my lady,” the Comte de Highpass says, looking at Morgana.

“They have been cleared of the charge. Please listen to their story,” Morgana says. So they tell their tale once again.

The room is silent as they tell all they have done and been through. No one stirs as they finally come to a stop. “Surely you do not believe them, Morgana,” L’Ector says, lounging on a sofa.

“Not on their word alone. My guards have asked around discreetly and four of the castle guards remember seeing them that night asking for an audience as they claim. One saw them with Nimueh. Gaius himself has examined them and says their condition is consistent with the hardship they described to us.”

“There are other explanations for that,” Mithian de Caernarvon says, eyeing the two of them, her face composed.

“True, but the most damning evidence of their conviction was their absence and now here they stand before us,” Morgana says to the woman.

“Is there any other evidence for their story?” Mithian asks.

Merlin steps forward and bows, “My lady, if you need more evidence, then send for the Marquise of Cholhn. It was his men we came upon in the woods. Or, you can venture into the Pictish lands and ask Hoel Peredur of the Alban slaves he bought from Nædre’s soldiers. I can point out exactly where his steading lies on a map.”

“And either way, we tip our hand to D’Alene. If you laid this trap, then Kilgharrah trained you well, but if not, we will need all the help we can get,” L’Ector says, eyeing Merlin from his seat.

Uriens steps up, putting a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “I’ve known Merlin since he was a child and I do not believe he would be party to Kilgharrah’s murder. As for the knight, he wears his honesty on his face.” He turns to look at Gwaine, “As for you, I do not know you, but you gain nothing from this either.”

“I’ve known Merlin longer than even Kilgharrah. I saw him the night he arrived in the city. He is not lying,” Gwaine says.

“I think the question we need to ask is why D’Alene wanted Kilgharrah dead?” Dame Fors asks from the side of the room. She and the other Court members are gathered in a group, watching the nobles.

No one stirs except Morgana, who shifts restlessly, her dress rustling in the still room. “The fault may fall on me partly,” she admits. “I asked him to help me in a certain matter that D’Alene probably thought dangerous to his plan.”

“You can’t still be going through this?” L’Ector asks, looking at Morgana.

“It is not for you to decide,” she says, chin lifting in defiance.

“I would rather see a union with one of the mainland princes. At least then we would have soldiers to add to our ranks,” L’Ector says with a growl.

“Morgause almost came close enough. If she had been able to rally the army of the Frumgar’s son, Galway, across from Hibernia, we would never have been able to stop them,” Uriens reminds them.

“They would have never made it across, not with the Fisher King guarding the waters. Petit tried it already, and they never even got close,” Pellinore de Dieu says.

“He let the Frumgar’s nephew, Driant across and no one knew why,” Morganor l’Galdren says, standing. “Beside, Nimueh and D’Alene stopped them.” He turns to Morgana, “My lady, what do you have to do with Hibernia that would cause Kilgharrah’s death?”

Straightening before them, she says evenly, “At the age of sixteen, my hand was promised to Driant mab Drekana son of Drekana and heir and nephew to Frumgar of Hibernia.”

It clicks then, the pattern that he has been trying to figure out since he was old enough to start seeing parts of it. “The message, you sought passage for the Hibernian Prince to here, but why turn to Kilgharrah?”

“Uther didn’t like Kilgharrah, hated the bond between him and Ygraine, but he could see the use in Kilgharrah’s oath. After Ygraine and the prince’s death, Uther sought out an alliance with my hand as currency…but I wanted something more,” Morgana says. “Driant mab Drekana.”

L’Ector lets out a roaring laugh, “The cripple? You want to marry him?”

Morgana sends a withering glare at the man, “I want to wed the rightful heir to the Hibernian throne, to whom I am betrothed. And it is what Kilgharrah was trying to accomplish and was killed for.”

“And what does this have to do with D’Alene or the Picts?” Leon Gannes, Knight Captain, asks, stepping forward with a bow to his ward.

“It could have nothing to do with it,” she says, “or it could be everything.” Everyone is silent at her words.

~*~

Morgana paces the room as they all sit, listening to her words, “All my life, I have been a pawn in Uther’s game for alliance by marriage. I have been courted, had suits thrown at me, and parties thrown in my name until I could scream, and for lords who only see a means to a throne. But the Hibernians, they don’t want power. They only come for a vision and it seems it was enough to sway the Fisher King.”

Merlin remembers Freya mentioning it, how the Hibernian party had come following the vision, of a Red Hart and a Golden Dragon.

“Driant has no wish to rule over Camelot or the five kingdoms. He only wants what is best for his people. We spoke of it, through mixed tongues, of ruling together, our two kingdoms. I will not abandon this alliance for convenience.”

“You are Queen now,” Mithian says softly, “You may not have a choice.”

“The emperor—,” L’Ector begins.

“Will send aid if he wishes to keep from being invaded if we fall,” Mithian cuts in. “Do you really think the Picts will stop with just the five kingdoms? The simplest solution would be to marry D’Alene.”

“And set a traitor upon the throne?” the Comte de Dieu asks with a hiss.

“If it is true, then our first course would be to bind his loyalty, to fight of the invasion,” she says with a glare at the Royal Commander. There are murmurs everywhere as people start voicing their opinions.

Merlin shakes himself and says softly, “No. Even if we did secure his loyalty, we still have the Pictish invasion. I have seen their numbers, I know what we would be up against and even with D’Alene’s men, we would never survive. And we would be betrayed the moment we came to the decision by Nimueh. She corresponds with Arrœk and he would be tipped off.”

“Then we bring Nimueh de l’Isle in to custody,” Morganor says gruffly.

“Do you think it would be that easy to hold her? It is no coincidence that she is with her kin and not in Camelot,” Merlin says, eyeing the large lord.

“What I want to know is why she would betray us? What could possibly be worth the risk?” Dame Maliasa Bulor asks. They all turn to look at Merlin.

Merlin trembles slightly under their stares. Taking a breath, he lets it out before speaking. “The L’Isle House has always played the Game of Houses and Thrones. And this time, the whole of Albion is the stakes. But she has made a mistake with me and it is our only advantage. But do not expect another. If you feel D’Alene is our biggest threat, than you are falling into her trap.”

“I will not allow that man to revolt with my army,” Pellinore growls out.

“But we do not know if they are revolting or not. We need to find a way to the truth,” L’Ector murmurs.

“Without tipping out hand, of course,” the Commander says, eyeing the Duc. L’Ector just smirks and nods.

“Where are Prince Dillon’s Men stationed?” Uriens asks. “If I recall, D’Alene was trying to gain control of them.”

“In Escetia, under Persant’s control, but they are an insubordinate bunch,” Pellinore says, nodding towards his son.

“My cousin was always a patient man,” Uriens says with a smile, remembering the prince. “He had Morgause for a mother,” he says, glancing at Morgana who is the woman’s half-sister. Morgana doesn’t even twitch at the slight. “Perhaps we should give D’Alene them. Let them ride with him, test the loyalties of D’Alene’s men.”

“And how do we guarantee their loyalty?” Mithian asks. “If you’ll recall, it was the Pendragon line that had their leader killed.”

“Yes, Uther, but what if Morgana were to recall Cenred de la Escetia and his daughter Dalia from exile?” Uriens continues.

“And strip away my son’s stewardship of the Escetian throne?” Pellinore asks with a glare, voice low.

“Your son may be a good man, but he is not of the Escetian line, nor one of their nobles. They would never accept him unless he was to become one of them…say through marriage,” Uriens says coolly back.

“Dalia,” Mithian says softly.

“Exactly,” Uriens nods.

Morgana turns to Uriens. “Without the Escetian army, we would be left with only half our defenses. Comte de Isidore, your cousin has committed a crime against this throne and the five kingdoms. If given a chance to redeem himself, would he take it?”

“My lady, he is an Alban in exile. Given the chance, he will take it and be twice as fierce to prove his loyalty,” Uriens murmurs.

Morgana bites her lip in thought before nodding. “I assume you know where he resides?” Uriens nods. “We will speak with the soldiers first and tell them that their loyalty and discretion holds their king’s redemption in the Balance. Will you do this for me?”

Uriens nods. “Good. I have spoken with Tristan de la Bois and with Duc L’Ector’s help; we have gained a truce between us. They have men they can provide us and many of their merchants deal with the places close to the mountains. He is also willing to provide information and we need it badly. We need anything we can get and it needs to be gathered secretly. Will you help me?”

By the end of the day, when night has fallen, each has pledged to gather what they can with discretion. The knights, under the Knight Commanders approval, will be used as messengers, creating a network between each of the major parties.

Finally, Duc L’Ector brings the conversation back to where they had originally started. “We have started the path to dealing with invasion and civil war, but what of your crippled lad?”

Uriens stand and answers, “Driant mab Drekana escaped his cousin’s attack and has fled with his sisters and mother and some warriors to the western most point of Hibernia and have taken refuge amongst the Wigend. Although they have asked the Wigend to help retake the throne from Galway, they have refused.”

“Yes, yes, we know this. Is that all Kilgharrah was able to get, despite his vast intelligence?” L’Ector asks.

“No,” Juliana says lowly. “Kilgharrah was in contact with Petit who carried a petition to the Fisher King asking for passage for Driant and his people to cross. Once they reached Alban soil, he and Morgana would wed and Albion would aid him in regaining his throne as would he aid in our time of need.”

“And the Fisher King’s answer?” Mithian asks.

“He answered that _‘When the Red Hart rules in Hibernia, the Fisher King will accede.’_ That was Petit’s message to Kilgharrah,” Juliana says.

“That makes no sense,” the Comte Highpass says.

“It does though. There are four main houses in Hibernia: Blæc Beran, the Black Bear to the north; Read Heorot, the Red Hart to the south; Grene Hengest, the Green Horse to the east; and Fealo Leo, the Yellow Lion to the west. Galway is a member of the Black Bear house and Driant is from the Red Hart house. The Red Hart House is the head, the one to unite all of Hibernia. The Fisher King will grant our request, so long as we help him regain his throne,” Juliana says.

Merlin frowns, a memory nagging at the back of his mind. He jerks his head up and turns to look a Gwaine, “Remember, in the inn? ‘Do not discount the Read Heorot.’ Don’t discount the Red Hart.” Merlin looks up to see everyone staring at him again.

“What are you talking about?” Morgana asks.

“Some years ago, I was with Gwaine in the inn. Someone said those words, but when we looked there was no one there. I didn’t understand what it meant at the time, but now…it means Prince Driant.”

“Perhaps if the Wigend knew of the Fisher King’s pledge, they would help him. If only Kilgharrah weren’t dead. He could speak Hibernian as well as the girl.” Morgana turns to Juliana, “I would send you, but Gaius has informed me that a sea voyage would only worsen your condition.”

“So he has told me,” she says with a small smile. “But my lady, you are forgetting. Kilgharrah had two wards.” She turns to look at Merlin.

“What!” Merlin says, looking back at Juliana.

“Merlin speaks the language and he is taught by Kilgharrah himself. He could take Kilgharrah’s place as Queen’s Ambassador.”

“But, I’m just…I can’t…I can’t be ambassador,” Merlin says, shaking his head.

“You are more cut out for it than anyone here, boy,” L’Ector says. “The fact that you double-crossed not only the Pictish Warlord, but escaped and made it here to warn us is enough to go on besides the fact that your teacher was Kilgharrah.”

“I barely survived that and I couldn’t do it again,” Merlin says.

“You would not be alone and besides, the Hibernians are not the Picts. You would be there as ambassador, not a slave,” Morgana says, looking directly at Merlin.

Merlin can only stare, shocked into frozenness. Sighing, Arthur bows slightly to Morgana before moving to stand in front of Merlin, catching his gaze and holding it. “Merlin, you will not go alone. I will be there,” Arthur says softly, for Merlin’s ears alone.

“Merlin?” Morgana says and Merlin looks at the new Queen. She is young, just a few years older than Merlin and she looks uncertain, but her eyes show the steel of her resolve. “Will you accept this role?”

Merlin swallows and glancing once at Arthur, he nods. “I will, your highness. I will go.”

Morgana nods and for a moment, her shoulders sag in relief before straightening. “Now, to get you to the Royal Admiral safely,” Morgana says softly.

“Where is he at?” Merlin asks.

“Off the peninsula closest to Hibernia: Porte,” Morgana says.

“I think I have an idea to get there, you majesty,” Gwaine says aloud, all eyes turning towards him.

When Morgana nods for him to continue, Gwaine does, “There are old roads that only the Druids use. There is one that leads to Porte. Only a Druid or someone who knows the signs will know the road exists. It would be simple to disguise ourselves as a Druid group, moving to a new camp. No one would suspect us.”

“And you know someone who can find this road?” L’Ector drawls, looking at Gwaine.

“I do,” Gwaine says easily. When Merlin looks at him in confusion, he continues, “My mother and I lived with a Druid group for a while until we came to Camelot.”

Morgana nods, “So be it. If you can show the way, I will supply anything you need. Talk with my chancellor, he will outfit you with whatever you deem necessary for this journey.” Gwaine nods and bows his head to her. Morgana turns to the rest, “It has been decided. It is late and I am sure you are all tired. Feel free to ask what you will from the kitchen staff. We will reassemble in the morning.” They all bow as Morgana leaves.

~*~

Merlin slips out before anyone can stop him. Arthur and Gwaine find him later, holed up in his room on his bed. The dragon egg rests in the cradle of his lap. “What is that?” Gwaine asks, shutting and locking the door behind them.

Merlin glances up to see them watching him. “It…it’s a dragon egg,” Merlin says softly, running a fingertip over the smooth shell. The egg is warm to the touch, magic tingling underneath it.

“What?” Gwaine asks, coming closer.

“One of Kilgharrah’s books in his library was on dragons…and Dragonlords,” Merlin admits. “It said that the last Dragonlord was the warlock before me and that apparently, I’m descended from him.” Merlin doesn’t look up at Gwaine.

“A Dragonlord, huh?” Gwaine says, settling on the bed near Merlin’s feet. “Well, that certainly makes your Mearcung fitting,” Gwaine says with a chuckle.

Merlin goes to say something, but is stopped by a yawn. “You should sleep,” Arthur says softly.

Merlin’s exhausted, physically and emotionally. Nodding, Merlin curls up on the bed, egg cradled close to his chest. Arthur pulls the blanket up over him, tucking them in. Merlin falls asleep to the sound of Arthur and Gwaine’s voices a low murmur in the background.

~*~

_Merlin_

_Merlin_

_Merlin!_

Merlin jerks up, looking around blearily, trying to figure out who is calling his name. Arthur and Gwaine are still up and they look over at him. “Did someone call my name?” he asks, yawning.

“No,” Gwaine says.

Frowning, Merlin rubs absently at the egg still pressed close to him.

_Merlin!_

Merlin jerks again, looking around. Merlin rolls to his knees, looking around. “Who keeps calling my name?” he asks aloud.

_Here_

Frowning, Merlin glances down where his hand still touches the egg.

_Yes!_

“You?” Merlin asks, leaning down to bring the egg to eye level. Something thumps against the inside of the shell and Merlin jerks his hand back. “You’re alive? Why don’t you come out of your shell?” Merlin asks, unaware of Gwaine and Arthur coming closer to the bed.

_Help_

“How do I help you?” Merlin asks.

_Name_

“Name? You mean I need to call your name?” The egg rocks a bit on the next thump. “All right, but I don’t know your name?” Merlin says.

_Know_

“All right,” Merlin says with uncertainty. Still frowning a little, Merlin closes his eyes and drags in a breath. He can feel his magic and he goes into it instead of pulling it out. A thread of it travels down his arm to the egg, connecting him.

Something about it calls to him and he follows it to the egg. The moment he enters the egg, his vision goes golden and something bursts forth in his mind, a word, a name. “Aithusa,” the names bursts from his mouth.

Merlin is finally able to let go of the egg and as he does, there’s a loud cracking sound. Merlin opens his eyes to find Arthur holding up his sagging body. On the bed, amongst the cracked shell and slime, sits a little white dragon.

“Well, how do I explain this?” Merlin says softly. Next to his, Gwaine snorts.

~*~

Merlin spends the morning hidden away in his room, studying the little white dragon. Aithusa is about the length of his arm, including his tail. He has bright blue eyes and it doesn’t take long before the little thing gains the ability to fly and knock things off of the wall.

When Aithusa lands on the small ceiling fixture, Merlin glares up at him, “Get back down here.”

He doesn’t here the door open, but he does here someone gasp. Merlin whirls around to see Morgana standing in the doorway, eyes glued to Aithusa. “My lady,” Merlin says, panic starting to rise in his throat.

“Is that?” she says softly.

“Yes, my lady, this is Aithusa,” Merlin says.

Morgana shuts the door with a snap, walking further in, though she doesn’t take her eyes off of the dragon. “I thought they all died?” she says, looking at Merlin.

“So did I, but I found his egg in a cave we stayed in. There was a Dragonlord’s symbol carved into the wall. He hatched last night,” Merlin says, sitting on the edge of the bed. Aithusa, curious about the new arrival, pushes off from the fixture and glides down to the bed, looking up at Morgana.

“Are you…a Dragonlord?” Morgana asks. Merlin nods. “But how?”

“It’s a long story,” Merlin says softly. Looking up at Morgana, he asks, “Did you need anything, my lady?”

“Oh, um, yes. I have brought someone to see you,” Morgana admits.

Merlin nods and stands. “Will he be all right, by himself?’ Morgana asks.

“He’ll fall asleep soon and I’d like to keep him a secret for now,” Merlin admits.

“All right. This way,” Morgana says, leading Merlin out of the room. Merlin glances back to see Aithusa curled up on the bed, blue eyes following him. Smiling, he shuts the door behind him.

~*~

What Merlin expected and what he saw, are two different things. Master Morholt Saracen is standing in the room Morgana leads him too. Merlin stops, heart in his throat as he looks between the tattooist and Morgana.

“I would prefer my Ambassador to be free before I sent him on my mission,” Morgana says with a smile.

“Well, boy, let’s get to it. We have an unfinished contract between us,” Saracen says, motioning Merlin forward where a cloth covered table waits.

Morgana leaves them and Merlin strips out of his clothing, lying on the table. “Where is you apprentice?” Merlin asks as the man gets his things together.

“Gone. He was taken by the sickness,” Saracen says simply. “You will be my last piece. I’m too old to start over.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin murmurs as the man lays the tapper against his skin and strikes it. Time seems to slow then. With his magic suffusing him, Merlin’s world narrows to the sharp pain of the needles stamping ink into his skin. With each tap, his magic hooks itself into the point. With each tap, he is a step closer to finally being free.

It seems to take an eternity, but what is probably only a few hours, Master Saracen stops, finished. Merlin thanks him and the old man grunts in acknowledgement, seeing to his things. Merlin quickly dons his clothing and slips out of the room.

~*~

Back in his room, Merlin strips again and stands in front of the full length mirror. Pants low on his hips; he can just see the base. The dragon, long and sinuous, stares back at him with golden eyes. Wrapped around a sword obscured by its wings and limbs, Merlin stares at the Drycræft symbols written on the blade of the sword: _Take me up. Cast me away_. It had seemed fitting before and it still is.  
  
He can see Aithusa behind him on the bed and the dragon’s eyes seem to glow with approval. There is a knock at the door and Morgana comes in, shutting the door. “Is it done?” she asks. Merlin nods and turns to show her. “It is fitting…Dragonlord.”

Merlin shrugs and slips his tunic on over his head, the cloth brushing against his tender skin. “I wanted to bring you this,” Morgana admits. She hands him a slim book, bound in smooth leather. “It is Ygraine’s diary, from before her marriage to Uther. It…it explains a lot about Kilgharrah, how she met him. Mayhap you’ll finally learn the truth of your master,” Morgana says softly.

“Thank you, my lady,” Merlin whispers.

Morgana nods, “You leave tomorrow. Be ready.”

~*~

With morning comes Gwaine and things for their journey. Gwaine shoves a bundle of clothing at Merlin. Inside is a homespun shirt in dark green, brown breeches underneath it. Over it goes a brown jacket and a light grey cloak.

The others are in similar dress. A small wagon and horses wait for them. Gwaine walks up with a grin. “Merlin you will be driving the wagon. You will be my cousin from my father’s side. Arthur is a fellow traveler who joined up with us on our way to Porte, but he not a Druid, which will explain the sword just fine.”

They both nod. Merlin quickly scrambles up into the driver’s seat while servants load their things onto the wagon. Morgana, Juliana, L’Ector, Uriens, Gaius and Alice all stand watching them get ready. Stepping forward, Morgana swept her gaze over them. “Be safe,” she says softly.

“We will,” Merlin says. Beside him, his pack wiggles, Aithusa restless at being confined inside it. Nodding, Morgana steps back and with a flick, Merlin has the wagon moving, Arthur and Gwaine following on their horses. Soon, the others fade from sight and the trees close up around them.

~*~


	7. Part 7

**Part 7**   


They are all silent as they travel north through the woods on one of the better kept roads. Around them, the forest is alive with life, birds chirping and insects buzzing. Gwaine rides ahead of them, searching for the markers that proclaim where the Druid road starts.

Beside him, Arthur is silent, eyes watchful. When Gwaine finally finds what he is looking for, he gives a shout. As the wagon pulls up, Merlin brings it to a stop. “Is this it?” Merlin asks. It looks barely big enough to let the wagon through.

“It is, look,” Gwaine says, pointing to one of the trees that bracket the road. There, barely noticeable, is a small sigil carved into the bark. If Merlin concentrates, he can just pick up on the small amount of magic infused with it.

“Then let’s go before anyone starts to come this way,” Arthur says. Gwaine goes in first, followed by Merlin and the cart then Arthur bringing up the rear. At first, it is a tight fit, bushes and branches scrapping along the sides of the cart. This goes on for a few hundred feet when suddenly, the trail opens up before them.

Gwaine is grinning from ear to ear at their surprised looks. “Told you,” he says simply, leading the way. Shrugging at Merlin, Arthur sends his horse forward to talk with Gwaine. For the most part, Merlin lets the sounds of their travel wash over him. After so long running in fear and desperation, it feels nice to not have to worry.

A small growl sounds out next to him, his bag giving a harsh wiggle before Aithusa pokes his head out from under the flap. He sends Merlin a questioning chirp, looking up with imploring blue eyes. “Sorry, Aithusa, but not until we’re a little further away from the city. Don’t want anyone seeing you just yet,” Merlin says, rubbing the little dragon under the chin. The dragon gives a sad chirp and pulls his head back into the pack.

They travel for the rest of the day, only stopping for the midday meal. Feeling a little guilty, Merlin let’s Aithusa out for a while. The little dragon spends most of their stop exploring the leaves and bushes, poking his head into random places.

By the time night starts to fall, Merlin is hoping they stop soon, his butt and back sore from the constant bouncing on the hard wooden bench. Gwaine seems to know what he is doing, because soon, he’s pulling off the side of the road into a little sheltered alcove of trees.

The ground has been cleared, a fire pit dug into the ground and ringed with rocks. There’s even a small lean-to with fire wood underneath it. Unhitching the horse from the wagon, Merlin and Arthur are silent as they see to their mounts, Gwaine looking on with an amused air.

As they sit around the fire eating, Gwaine comments, “You two have certainly been quiet.”

Arthur just grunts, eating the stew that they had made. Merlin shrugs. “We needed to be quiet when we escaped. It’s hard to slip out of it after so long,” Merlin says. Fidgeting with the pack, he lifts the flap and Aithusa crawls out to sprawl in front of the fire.

Smiling, Merlin places a small bowl of stew next to his head and soon the little dragon is devouring the meal. A sharp wind blew through their shelter and Merlin huddled closer to the fire, shivering a little. It is still winter, though the end of it.

The talk about the campfire is small, about nothing really. It is mostly Gwaine talking about things that had happened while they were away, the antics of his little network of people. Merlin listens, head nestled in his arms, letting the words wash over him and lull him a little.

He starts when a hand jerks him awake. “Go to bed, Merlin,” Arthur says quietly. Nodding, Merlin stands slowly, accepting the bedroll from Arthur. Rolling it, Merlin shucks off his boots and slips under the blankets, letting sleep drag him under. A short time later, a small ball of heat crawls into his makeshift bed and curls up against his stomach.

~*~

They start out early the next morning and for a while, Merlin sits on the wooden seat and drives. Then he remembers the slim book Morgana had given him. Digging into his bag, he pulls the leather-bound book out, leaving the flap open for Aithusa to crawl out groggily after being woken by Merlin.

Merlin spends the rest of the day immersed in its faded pages. It’s odd, to see Kilgharrah as something more than the man who bought and raised him as a child, but in these pages, he is seen from someone else’s eyes and the picture that Queen Ygraine de la Pendragon paints is a man with few worries and a more lighthearted nature.

It seems that it was Ygraine who found Kilgharrah, alone in the woods of Tintagel, hurt. Helping him back to the Bois summer home where she had been staying, she nursed Kilgharrah back to health. Soon after, they had struck up a friendship. With Ygraine’s charm and charisma and Kilgharrah’s wit, they were soon inseparable.

It isn’t until later on that Kilgharrah reveals who he was to Ygraine and through Ygraine’s journal, to Merlin. He had told her that he was older than he looked, far older. He told her in confidence about his true heritage, that of a dragon. At first Ygraine hadn’t believed him, thinking it a joke. It took some convincing on Kilgharrah’s part, but Ygraine doesn’t go into detail, so Merlin doesn’t learn how exactly Kilgharrah convinced her.

After the death of the last dragonlord, Ambrosia Antonius, had been slain, Kilgharrah had been grievously wounded. He’d gone into hiding, deep in the mountains to sleep and heal. He wasn’t too sure how he came to be in the hills of Tintagel in human form and can only assume it had to be the Balance’s doing.

It continues on to Ygraine’s first meeting of a brash, arrogant Uther de la Pendragon and her eventual falling in love. There were a few heated arguments over her soon approaching marriage to Uther, Kilgharrah saying harsh words about her betrothed. Finally, Ygraine gave Kilgharrah an ultimatum: leave her despite their friendship, or accept her marriage and come with her to Camelot. Eventually, he decided that he would come with her.

Everything was fine, until Ygraine couldn’t get pregnant.

When they came to Kilgharrah, asking him to use magic, at first he refused, not saying why. Eventually though, she cornered her friend and demanded he give one good reason why. He explained that for him to give her a child someone must die and it would most likely be her. He’d rather she be barren and childless than lose her.

She eventually persuaded him and she asked that he keep the risk from Uther, for her husband would try to stop her. “He has promised me to not tell Uther of the risk to my life, but I don’t care. I want to give Uther this and I want it for myself. This child that grows inside me will grow up with a king for a father and a dragon for a mentor and will be wiser for it. I just hope Kilgharrah can forgive me for forcing his hand. Mayhap one day, he will understand this need inside me of wanting to be a mother. One can only hope it will be soon.”

Soon though, she was pregnant and though it pained him, Kilgharrah was happy for her. Except, that as the due date steadily got closer, the weaker Ygraine became, often spending the day in bed, to regain her strength. By the end when she gave birth, she could barely move her head.

Merlin knows the rest, how the Queen was poisoned in her weakened state, soon after dying. How Uther, enraged with grief, had nearly banish Kilgharrah. He must have seen the grief in Kilgharrah’s eyes though, for he stayed his hand and shut the dragon-turned-man from the court.

That night, they sat around another fire in another little campsite. Merlin mused on Ygraine’s journal. He hadn’t even been born when this had happened. Arthur had already been sent to the Brothers and Morgana had already reached her second birthday by the time Merlin had been had been born. By the time Merlin had been taken to the Court, things had already been set into motion that would shape his future.

And that future extends to now, as their small group races for Porte and the sea and across the water, Hibernia, where their last hope waits. It seems so much rests on Merlin’s choices and words. Clutching the small diary tighter, Merlin prays to the Balance and any other god who is listening that he doesn’t fail.

~*~

They don’t cross paths with anyone until two days later. The road they have been following crosses through a large meadow, and in it sits a large camp of Druids. It is Merlin’s first time meeting a Druid, not counting Freya.

A man, the leader of the group most likely, steps forward to speak with Gwaine. Merlin keeps his head down and Aithusa’s hiding place close. Finally, Gwaine dismounts and walks over to them. “Borre has asked us to eat with him tonight and says we may camp here as well,” Gwaine says, nodding to the man standing further away.

“Is it safe?” Arthur asks lowly, eyeing the camp in front of them.

“It is,” Gwaine assures. “The Druids are a peaceful people and will not attack unless attacked first.”

“Then it seems we’ll be staying,” Merlin says softly.

Gwaine walks back to the man, telling him their decision. Borre smiles and nods, waves his arm in a gesture for them to follow him. He leads them to a small area near the back of the camp. He leaves them with another smile, saying he will send for them when the meal is ready.

They unsaddle the horses and brush them down. Laying out their bed rolls for later, they sit and wait. Arthur pulls out his sword and whet stone and sets about sharpening it. It gets a few looks from those closest to them, but for the most part, they are ignored.

Keeping his back to the camp, Merlin opens his pack to look at Aithusa. “You’re going to have to stay in there tonight,” Merlin says softly. Aithusa chirps at him in question. “No, they wouldn’t hurt you, but we need to keep you secret for now. I promise that the moment we get far enough away, I’ll let you out and you can fly around some.” Aithusa gives the dragon equivalent of a sigh, a puff of smoke drifting up out of the bag, and settles further into the leather folds.

Sighing, Merlin shuts the bag and tucks it under his bed roll. A few minutes later, someone comes forward and says that Borre will eat with them now. Merlin glances back once as they walk away before forcing himself to face forward.

~*~

Inside the tent they are shown to, Borre sits, his grey hair and lined face the only sign of his age. Beside him sits another man, who looks to be a few years younger. A younger man sits across from them, next to two women: one a younger woman, the other much older.

“Ah, come in, please. Have a seat,” Borre says, motioning to the cushions set near the fire. “Allow me to make introductions, please. This is my younger brother Clègis. That is his son and my nephew Sadok as well as his wife Frœdra and her mother Chiaræ.” He points to each in turn and they nod in greeting.

“A pleasure,” Gwaine says, taking a seat. Merlin and Arthur follow suit. “I am Gwaine and this is my cousin Merlin and Arthur, a friend we picked up on the road.”

“We still have a few minutes until the food is ready, come, let us talk. Where are you three headed?” Borre asks politely.

“Porte,” Gwaine says easily. “I’ve some family living there and with the sickness in Camelot, I thought it would be prudent for me and my cousin to leave, just in case it started to spread from the city.”

“We have heard of the sickness in the city. It is a sad thing indeed. We mourned for the loss of so many, as well as the passing of the old king. Uther wasn’t the greatest king, but he was still ours and he will be missed. And now, Morgana de la Pendragon is Queen,” Borre says softly.

Soon after, the meal is served and they eat mostly in silence, only talk of travel and weather breaking the silence. Merlin spends his time watching these people, not speaking as Gwaine and Arthur lead the discussions.

By the time they leave, Merlin still hasn’t spoken. “Is everything okay?” Arthur asks quietly as they walk back to their wagon.

“Hmm, oh, yes. It just, they seem so normal. I guess I was expecting more after so long hearing stories about them and Freya’s tales of them,” Merlin says, rubbing his neck a little.

Arthur snorts, but doesn’t say anything. They sleep close to the wagon and horses that night. Merlin starts awake at sudden sounds, but for the most part, the camp is silent.

~*~

By the time the sun has truly risen, they are packed and ready to leave. Gwaine and Arthur are seeing to the horses while Merlin puts out their small fire. He nearly falls into the fire when a hand lands on his arm. Whirling around, Merlin stares at Chiaræ.

“Peace, warlock,” she says softly.

“What?” Merlin asks sharply, panic rising. He didn’t want word of a warlock traveling through Camelot to get back to their enemies.

“Do not worry so. I still remember the old tales and if my kin and the rest of the camp are too ignorant to realize who you are, I will not be informing them. I just came to give you this,” she says and hands him a little pouch.

Frowning, but curious, Merlin takes it and peers inside. “My mother gave that to me, and her mother gave it to her, and so forth. It has brought my family good fortune, and it looks like you could use some of that luck yourself. Be safe young warlock and may the Balance always be in your favor.”

Inside, about the length of his thumb, rests a scale, a dragon scale. It shimmers with a bronze hue at the light hits it. “Thank…you,” Merlin finishes as he realizes that the old woman has already left.

“What is that?’ Arthur asks as Merlin comes over to take his usual position in the wagon.

“A good luck gift,” Merlin says, stowing the scale inside his pack next to Aithusa.

~*~

It takes them for more days to reach Porte proper, but their last night camping with the wagon; they can smell the sea on the breeze. Perhaps this has them letting their guard down because as they start to make their way further down the road, they are taken by surprise by a patrol as it crests a hill.

The twenty guards pour down the trail and start to surround them. Merlin can see Arthur’s hand on his sword hilt and though he can’t see Gwaine’s front, he’s sure Gwaine has his hands on his hidden daggers. Merlin stares at the banner one of the riders is carrying: a dark blue field with three black ravens; the Duc de Porte’s crest.

Their leader stops just in front of them, eyeing their small wagon and plain clothing. “Where are you bound, Druid?” he asks.

“We are taking something to the Admiral, may we pass?” Gwaine asks with easy, even with his hands on his daggers.

The leader snorts, “No one crosses without the Duc’s permission. We shall wait for him.”

Merlin heart sinks at the leader’s words. The one person who can identify him whose loyalties are ambiguous at best and he is being brought to meet them. One of the men turns his mount and rides off for their master.

They dare not try and fight through, not with reinforcements so close, so they wait and an hour later, the sound of two horses can be heard. Merlin ducks his head, hoping to avoid attention as the rider and Duc Mordred de Porte ride over the hill.

The men bow as the Duc pulls his horse up. “Why have you sent for me?” he asks with a note of annoyance in his voice.

“My lord, these Druids are seeking permission to cross, but they have not given sufficient reason as to why,” the leader says.

“And that reason?” Duc de Porte asks with a bored look.

“They say they carry something to the Admiral who has made port along your coast,” he informs him.

“Oh, and what is it that you carry for the dear Admiral?” Duc de Porte asks.

“Sir, we cannot say. We were given it in the strictest confidence and asked to deliver it as quickly as possible,” Gwaine says.

The Duc snorts softly, eyeing their small company. “If you cannot give sufficient reason, then I cannot let you cross.” He starts to turn his horse and stops, “Unless you are willing to trade for passage. As Druids, I’m sure you’ve something of worth to trade.”

Gwaine sidles up, “I could trade you this fine mount that I ride. As a lord, I’m sure you have need of such good flesh.”

“Why would I need another horse to add to my stables? If that is the best you can do, then turn your wagon around and leave,” Duc de Porte says.

“My lord,” Merlin calls out and the Duc pulls up his mount. “Perhaps we can come to a fair trade.”

“You idiot, what the hell are you thinking?” Arthur hisses at him, grabbing him by the arm.

Merlin shakes Arthur off and continues to stare at the Duc as he turns around. Even without the dragon mask, the Duc can clearly see his eyes. “Nimueh’s thing? I had heard you are a condemned murderer,” he says, staring at Merlin.

Ignoring his words, Merlin continues, “You know what I offer, my lord. One night, free passage and no questions. Do you accept?”

“Someone has forgotten to leash you. You cannot make such terms, warlock,” Duc de Porte says.

“I am a free man with a completed Mearcung and can make what terms I want. Do you accept? I will make you no other,” Merlin says evenly, not even flinching.

“I wonder what the Queen would pay to know of your presence. Or maybe house L’Isle? Nimueh always loves to learn things,” he says evenly.

Merlin can feel Arthur’s heated gave on his back and can hear Gwaine cursing up a storm nearby, his words getting darker and darker as the seconds draw out. As the tension grows, Merlin waits, not answering his questions, just staring.

Finally, the Duc breaks the staring match. “What business is it of mine that the Admiral is using Druids as a courier service? Fine, I accept your offer. You shall be my guests tonight and in the morning, you shall ride to the Admiral. Is it agreed?”

Merlin speaks up before Arthur can say anything, “It is. We will draw up the contract in your quarters. Do you have a priest to witness it?” Merlin asks.

“I will send for one,” he says.

Merlin nods and the Duc turns his mount. Slowly, they follow him along the road, Merlin ignoring the glare Arthur is sending him.

~*~

Merlin has never seen the home of the Duc de Porte. It is a tall watchtower, wider than even Kilgharrah’s house. It stands stark gray against the back drop of the sea. Behind it, the land falls away to white cliffs and a thin line of beach.

The wind whips over the cliff as the approach and Merlin shivers. Inside, the wagon is stowed and their horses stabled. They stand in the courtyard of the tower, the sky a distant circle of blue over their heads. Arthur and Gwaine pull Merlin aside while the Duc sees to other things for the moment.

“Are you crazy, Merlin?” Arthur hisses at him. “Why did you speak up?”

“We needed a way to cross. Mordred would have never let use cross otherwise,” Merlin says, trying to keep an even voice.

“Do you think he will keep his word?” Gwaine asks, eyeing the Duc.

“Yes. He maybe a prick, but he is bound by the Balance just as I am. It is harder than it looks to break a promise with the Balance, and not end up hurting yourself,” Merlin says. “Look, what’s done is done. At least we get a time to rest here. Try and gather any information if you must, but I will be doing this and nothing you say will stop me,” Merlin says, looking at Arthur.

Arthur heaves a heavy sigh, “Fine. But if he hurts you maliciously, I will drive my sword through his heart.” Merlin grins at Arthur’s words and nods. Merlin hands Arthur Aithusa’s bag with a look and he nods, understanding. He will keep him safe and hidden.

Mordred doesn’t even look at Arthur and Gwaine when he tells them they may stay with the guard in the kitchen for the night. Motioning Merlin onwards, he leads the way from the courtyard. Merlin glances back once with a small smile for his friends.

The priestess is waiting for them in his study; he simple robes a bright contrast to the darker stone. A fire roars in the grate behind his desk as they draw up the contract. “Your signal?” Mordred asks near the end.

Merlin blinks and it takes him a second to realize what he just asked. “Oh, um, Aithusa,’ Merlin says. It seems to fit, that his little dragon will protect him, even when not here. It doesn’t seem right for him to use Gwaine’s name anymore, not since Nimueh took the safety it meant away.

Mordred nods, his pale blue eyes staring at him for a drawn out second before writing down the word to the contract. The priestess nods and steps forward, pressing her seal into the wax and signing the contract. Merlin and Mordred sign it as well.

“You know, I will ask questions afterwards. The contract does not forbid that,” Mordred says once the priestess has left.

“I know, my lord, but beware, for those questions come with answers,” Merlin says evenly.

“Ah, so the dragon has a mind of its own. You know, unlike Nimueh, I have no need for collars,” he says, hand brushing the base of Merlin’s throat. “Are you Nimueh’s creature still? Has she sent you to test me? What game is she playing?”

Merlin steps back, shaking his head. “No questions, my lord,” Merlin reminds him.

“Ah yes,” he says and for a second, Merlin see him doubting his decision in taking up Merlin’s offer.

Sighing, Merlin shakes his head, “I will answer one thing, before we honor the contract. I am not Nimueh’s. If anything, I am Kilgharrah’s.”

“He honored his vow to Ygraine, in life and death. If you are his even with him dead, than you must be here on Morgana’s bidding,” Mordred says.

Merlin doesn’t say anything, only nodding toward the contract on the table still.

“Ah, yes, the contract. My servant will see you bathed and clothed properly,” he says, pulling on a rope cord beside the desk. A few minutes later, a servant knocks at the door. “See to it that he is bathed and dressed.”

The servant bows and leads Merlin out..

~*~

The servant leads Merlin away to a waiting bath. Merlin will admit that he indulges in the heated water after so many days using at best lukewarm water and a handy piece of cloth to bathe. By the time he is finished and has dried, the servants have found something close to his size.

The shirt, a rich purple, is a little loose in the shoulders and waist, but a belt fixes it mostly and he doesn’t complain. The leggings and pants are a brown so dark, they look almost black. Polished, black leather boots finish the image.

It has been so long since he dressed up for a patron that it feels odd now, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. Running a hand through his hair, Merlin nods to the servant in the mirror and follows him back out.

They don’t go back to the study, but to a small dining room set off to the side. Inside, it is set up for two, candles and a low fire making the room seem intimate. The servant arrive just as they sit down, serving the simple but rich food.

They are silent throughout the meal, Merlin watching Mordred through his lashes. When the last piece has been eaten and the last plate removed Mordred motions for the servant to pour them some wine. Merlin sips at is slowly, savoring the rich taste.

“Come,” Mordred finally says, and stands. Cradling his goblet, Merlin drains the last of his wine and sets it aside as he stands.

He is led to another room; inside a large four poster bed waits. Not the Duc’s rooms, a guest room most likely by the lack of anything but the basic furniture. As Merlin walks ahead, Mordred shuts and locks the door behind them. Merlin turns and looks at the Duc. “It begins now. Undress me,” he says.

Merlin doesn’t say anything, just steps forward to slowly peel the Duc’s clothing from his body. His body bears scars and Merlin remembers that the Duc used to be a soldier when he was younger, before his father died and he became the next Duc.

His cock is already hard behind his laces when Merlin goes to unknot them. Mordred places a hand on Merlin’s shoulder as he finishes the laces and grabs Mordred’s leg to take his boots off. He is full naked in front of Merlin, who is still on his knees.

“I will take my pleasure tonight, starting with these,” Mordred says softly, running a thumb over Merlin’s lips. His hand jerks up, grabbing a handful of Merlin’s hair and shoving his face into his crotch. Merlin doesn’t fight him, letting the Duc guide him for what he wants. It’s going to be a long night.

~*~

Merlin wakes alone in the bed. Stiff and a little sore, he stretches, feeling his muscles give easily. That certainly wasn’t the worst assignation he has had. A servant enters shortly with clothing and a message that the Duc wishes to have breakfast with him.

Thanking the servant, Merlin dismisses them and gets dressed. The shirt is thick white cloth, a brown leather belt cinching the billowing clothe to his waist. Sturdy boots go over fine breeches. Clothing meant for traveling.

Remembering the dining room from before, Merlin leaves his room and makes his way over to it. Mordred is already there, eating from a small array of dishes as he reads from a parchment scroll.

“Thank you for the clothing,” Merlin says, settling into the same chair from last time.

“I figured you no longer needed to hide behind your Druid clothing. Here,” he says, not looking up as he slides something across the table toward Merlin.

When he takes his hand away, Merlin sees a small crystal set in a silver ring. A fine chain goes through the loop over it. “It is a seeing crystal, taken from a cave full of them. It shows possible futures. I think you will need this more than I will, Warlock,” Mordred says.

“Thank you,” Merlin says softly, pulling the chain over his head and tucking the crystal into his shirt.

~*~

The Duc escorts him back to the courtyard where their wagon waits, already loaded and hitched, Gwaine and Arthur waiting on their horses. “I bring him back reasonable unharmed, knight. You can stop plotting my demises now,” Mordred says, eyeing Arthur whose hand is resting on the hilt of his sword.

Arthur glares at him and looks at Merlin, “Are you all right?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Merlin reassures. “The Duc honored our contract and we are free to continue.”

“Give my…regards, to the Queen’s admiral,” Mordred says with a smirk, turning away and walking back into his tower.

Merlin settles onto his wooden bench, pulling his pack close. Inside, he can feel Aithusa wiggling with want to come out and check on him. Flicking the reins, he follows Gwaine and Arthur as they leave the tower and make their way back the way they had come.

Arthur draws his horse up slightly until he is riding next to Merlin. “Are you sure you are all right?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Merlin says and winces as the cart goes over a bump and jostles the wagon. “Just a little sore, is all.”

“I’ll never understand how you can do this to yourself, let them hurt you so and call it pleasure,” Arthur grits out, glaring at open air.

“Your one to talk with your temper,” Merlin says sharply.

“What? I do not have a temper! And what has that to do with anything?” Arthur asks, jerking around to look at Merlin.

“You have a horrid temper, Arthur, but you try and hide it under your knightly honor. I’ve seen you lose it, seen you fight like a beast cornered when all hope was lost and death the only option. What is it like to lose yourself in it, to let go of everything?” Merlin asks, looking up at him with narrowed eyes.

“Good,” Arthur admits and looks away.

Merlin sighs, “If you must know, it isn’t really the sex part that is so great. My magic, when I use it, it’s like I’m finally whole. And when it is released during, it is like I’m connected to everything. I’m not me without my magic.”

“And among the Picts?” Arthur asks softly.

“That wasn’t by choice. That was me being used by the Balance,” Merlin says.

“Oh,” he says. They ride in silence for a while further. It took an half an hour to get back to their original path. After that it was a short hour ride along the coast until they found them.

Rising up over a hill, a forest of masts greeted them. “Come one!” Gwaine calls out to them, spurring his mount onward. Down below, men scurry about, some coming towards their path having spotted them.

By the time they reach the bottom of the hill, Admiral Petit Fils has arrived, glaring at their approach. “You have much explaining to do, Merlin nó Emrys,” Petit growls out as the wagon draws close to him.

“We bear a message from the Queen,” Merlin says. He doesn’t have time to say more as Petit pulls him from the wagon into a bone grinding hug. Merlin tries to hug back as best he can, but his arms are pinned at odd angles.

“I’d thought you lost for sure,” he says, pulling back. “Those idiots in the council had you convicted of murder.”

“I know; that is one reason why I’m here and not in Camelot,” Merlin says.

“And the other?” he asks.

“I speak Hibernian,” Merlin says.

“Ahh, that. I suppose we have much to discuss.” He glances at Arthur and Gwaine, “And I guess you two can come as well.” Merlin tries to hide his grin at the Admiral’s words.

Inside the tent, it is filled with chests and books and more treasure than Merlin has ever seen. “Sit and tell me what actually happened, from the beginning. Who killed the Old Dragon?” he asks, plopping down onto a stool.

Merlin and Arthur stare from the beginning in the tattooist’s shop and work their way up to meeting Nimueh in the castle and her betrayal. “It was Valiant d’Alene who killed Kilgharrah,” Merlin says, the old ache of loss trying to force its way into his throat. Swallowing heavily, they continue. They finish their tale with Morgana’s decision.

Petit sighs heavily, “I had hoped something like this wouldn’t happen. So she wants us to go across the straight to try and bring us her foreign love, eh? A fool’s errand if you ask me,” he growls, rubbing at the stubble on his cheek.

“And if it’s not a fool’s errand?” Merlin asks, leaning forward from where he is leaned against a chest.

“I’ve tried before, Merlin, from all sides, and nothing has works. We’d never even make landfall, even if we got close enough too,” Petit says.

Frowning, Merlin fiddles with the necklace around his neck. “How many ships?” Gwaine asks Petit.

“I’ve fifteen at the moment. The rest are further north, up the Gathen River to help with the Pict raids,” he says, but Merlin isn’t listening. Staring at the crystal, the shifts it and the light from a candle reflects off of it, shining in his eyes.

Images rise up in his mind: a ship setting sail, another lost in a fog bank, another sinking as a storm rages on overhead, another sailing into a bay. It is always the single ship, the Pendragon crest flying on the main mast.

“One ship,” Merlin says and they all look up at him. “You will only need one ship.”

“How?” Arthur asks.

Merlin holds up the crystal pendant, “Duc de Porte gave this to me as a patron-gift. It is a seeing crystal and shows possible futures. In every one I saw, there was on ship, flying the Pendragon crest.”

Petit rubs at his face again. “I’ve not much choice in the matter, huh? Do this or not.”

“It is your choice, Admiral,” Merlin says softly.

Giving a shuddering sigh, Petit squares his shoulders. “Well, if we’re going to die, might as well do it with style. I hope you know a way to get around the Fisher King, warlock, because if not, this will be a short voyage.” Merlin gulps at his words. “Well, better go tell the men to start packing and loading the ships. We set sail at dawn.”

~*~

As the sun slowly rises up, Petit and his men push the oar boats off from the shore, making their way to the flag ship where it rests further out in the bay. They had been up late into the night, planning and issuing orders. The rest of his fleet will go up the river to join his ships already stationed there. They could use the extra soldiers, even those trained for battle at sea.

A few remained to hold of Mordred and as the ships slowly got ready to sail, they remained on shore, watching. Merlin, Arthur, and Gwaine stood off to the side uneasily as the men hurried about, shouting orders.

Arthur, looking green around the edges, stared balefully at the vast expanse of water ahead of them. “Princess,” Gwaine stage whispered to Merlin with a grin. Grunting in annoyance, Arthur shot Gwaine a glare.

For Merlin, it’s an effort to find his sea legs, holding onto the railing to keep from slipping on the sea slick deck. Gwaine takes it in stride, swaggering across the deck like he was born to it. For Merlin, who has never seen an ocean and the biggest bit of water a lake, boats are something of a mystery to him.

As Petit walks about shouting orders left and right, slowly the ship comes to life. Men file down below and a low drum beat starts up, beating an easy tempo. The oars come out of their holes and the ship groans and turns to face out towards the mouth of the bay.

Feeling the wooden planks shudder under his feet as the ship starts to move, Merlin grips the railing harder. Petit shouts an order over the splashing of the oars just as the reach the mouth of the bay. Men hanging off the masts wave and the sails unfurl.

It is a sight to behold, the middle, biggest mast, holding a crimson sail, the golden dragon bulging out as the wind catches the sails. Merlin feels the moment the wind grabs the ship and pushes them. The oars are drawn in with shouts and cheers, men coming back up with grins. They are sailing.

A keg of wine is opened to toast the new voyage and Gwaine brings them all a flagon of it. Sipping at his, Merlin turns to look at Arthur who is looking greener by the second. “I shouldn’t,” he mutters, handing the flagon back to Gwaine who shrugs and drains it.

“Oh, don’t be such a pessimist, lad,” Petit roars, his cheek red with wine and the cool wind whipping by them. “If it comes up, it comes up, but just lean over the rail. We don’t want to have to clean up your sick later.”

A few minutes later, Arthur’s eyes grow wide and he does as told, leaning over the rail to let his stomach’s contents come up. Merlin winces in sympathy as Arthur’s back heaves. Petit laughs again. “Don’t worry; he’ll get his sea legs eventually.”

Merlin frowns at the Admiral, but he just grins and walks off, shouting orders. Gwaine, snickering at Arthur’s discomfort, follows him, already walking like a seaman. Sighing, Merlin stays put, watching over Arthur.

Petit’s plan is to make a straight shot across the waters west. With the wind at their backs, he reckons they can gain a good enough lead to stay ahead of the Fisher King and reach Hibernia’s eastern coast before he tries to stop them.

It is a good plan, but they don’t reckon on the Fisher King being in a foul mood.

~*~

The wind starts to slack, another breeze coming from the west, pushing the waves back towards them, slowing them. Petit is close enough that Merlin can hear him curse in the colorful sailor’s tongue. “What is it?” Merlin asks, looking at the Admiral.

“It’s him,” he says softly, and his voice carries over the sudden stillness as all the winds die suddenly. “It’s the Fisher King.”

Just as suddenly as the sky was clear, it opens up over them, rain and thunder and lightning. The sea pitches the boat like a toy. Merlin clings to the railing, Arthur next to him. “Can you do anything?” Arthur yells at him over the roar of the wind.

Merlin shakes his head. “I…I don’t know,” he shouts back.

“Drop the sails!” Petit roars and his men jump to do his bidding. Even on the heaving deck, they are agile, but even that isn’t enough as a huge wave sweeps over the ship, grabbing at those with nothing to hold and dragging them across. One man gets swept overboard, unable to grab the railing in time.

Arthur waits and then grabs Merlin, hauling him over to the main mast. Taking a rope, he quickly ties it around Merlin’s waist.

“Admiral, do we turn back?” Arthur yells at Petit.

Petit shakes his head, “It’s too late, he already here!”

A wave is coming towards them faster than anything natural. It grows and swells until it towers over even their tallest mast. And in it, a horrid fast stares back, eyes dark and fathomless as they stare down at them.

“WHO DARES CROSS MY OCEAN?”

“I do you old hag and if you want this prophesy of yours to happen, you’ll let us across!” Petit roars, hanging onto the wheel.

There’s a booming sound and it takes Merlin a second to realize that the face is laughing, laughing at them. “IT IS NOT YOUR PROPHESY, CAPTAIN! WHAT WILL YOU PAY FOR PASSAGE?”

“Name your price, you bloody sea nag, and I’ll pay it!” Petit roars back.

“A song,” someone says and Merlin sees Arthur close by, looking at him. “A song the likes of which you will have never heard.”

Merlin can only stare at him in bewilderment. Where would they get such a song? Arthur’s next words are lost in a roar of wind, but Merlin can read his lips: Hoel’s steading.

Realizing what he means, Merlin straightens and sings. Sings the songs he learned while slave to Hoel. He sings the songs of blood and battle, of home and hearth and the harvest, of love lost and children born. He sings until his throat is hoarse and the wind and sea dies down. Merlin falls silent and stares at the huge face looming above them.

“IT IS ACCEPTABLE. YOU MAY CROSS,” the Fisher King says and the wave sinks back down, the sky clearing as if nothing had ever happened.

Merlin sinks down, resting against the mast where he is tied. His legs are shaking and his throat feels like someone scraped it raw. Merlin shuts his eyes and is dead to the world.

~*~

He wakes to the darkness of the cabin below. Someone had carried him down and put him in a hammock, a blanket tucked up close around him. He can feel the warm, reassuring weight of Aithusa tucked under his arm.

Blinking bleary eyes, he can just make out Gwaine sitting on the floor, back to the wall. “Gwaine?” Merlin says and his throat comes out in a hoarse croak.

“Did you miss me?” he asks with a lazy grin. Standing, he comes forward with a flagon of some of the wine from before. Merlin takes it with a grateful smile.

“I wasn’t sure. I saw one go over,” Merlin says, swallowing with a wince.

“Four,” Gwaine says, eyes sad. “It would have been more if Harry Renowne, Petit’s second, hadn’t made us lash ourselves to the railing.”

“You saw it then?” Merlin asks.

“Yes, and you. Your eyes, they were glowing golden as you sang. It was magic,” Gwaine says.

Merlin shakes his head. “I don’t know what it was I did.” He looks back at his friend. “Where’s Arthur?”

“Above, trying to get his bearings by the stars. He’s not vomiting though, so that’s progress,” Gwaine says with a grin.

“We owe him,” Merlin mumbles, feeling sleep creeping back up on him.

“You’re the one who sang,” Gwaine says.

“But he was the one who reminded me,” Merlin says softly.

“Go to sleep, Merlin,” Gwaine says softly, hand running through Merlin’s hair soothingly. Merlin snuggles closer to Aithusa and falls asleep to the swaying of the ship.

~*~

Merlin shivers in the cool air as the sun rises from behind them. “Where do we land?” Merlin asks Petit where he stands next to him.

“A good question, Merlin. The last know information says that our Hibernian heir has taken refuge amongst the Wigend near the western coast of Hibernia. I suggest that we sail around the north of the island. With winter nearly done, the seas shouldn’t be too bad. After that, it is up to you to guide the way,” he says staring at Merlin.

“Me?” Merlin says with wide eyes.

“Yes, warlock. I’m here to get you there, but even I can’t just pick a random bay in hopes of finding these people. Maybe that crystal can help us,” he says pointing to where the chain peaks out from under his shirt.

“It only shows possible future, Admiral. It wouldn’t be of use to find the bay we need,” Merlin says.

“A possible future can still happen,” Arthur says coming up beside him.

“I don’t…I don’t even know how the crystal works. Last time was an accident,” Merlin admits, tugging the crystal out of his shirt.

“You figure it out, Merlin. For now, Admiral, I suggest we find land before we start looking for a place to land,” Arthur says.

“Don’t push yourself, lad. We still have a few days before we reach the western coast,” Petit says, clapping him on the shoulder. Nodding back at Arthur, he walks off, shouting orders to his men.

~*~

Merlin watches the sea, leaning up against the point of the ship. He nearly jumps when something grey jumps out of the water next to the ship. “What is that?” he asks aloud.

“Dolphins,” Gwaine says behind him. Merlin turns to look at him. “One of the men told me. They follow ships at sea and often help guide them to safe harbor. The sea folk see them as good luck.”

“Too bad they can’t show us the way,” Merlin says.

“Quit it,” Gwaine says, coming up to lean next to him. “Beating yourself up will not do any good.”

Merlin sighs, “I know. It’s just frustrating.”

“I read somewhere once that a warlock is the connection between this world and the Balance. I remember that day, at the temple; you were gone for a long time. Mayhap that’s you way of finding Driant. Maybe your magic can be used to seek him out,” Gwaine says.

“It’s worth a try,” Merlin says. Eyeing the water down below, he pushes off from the railing, “Maybe I should be seated for this.”

Settling his back against the wooden railing, Merlin breaths in the salt air and lets it back out. He can hear the gulls crying over head and the dolphins splashing beside the ship. There’s no bell this time to ring, but he doesn’t need it. Pulling deep, he lets his magic out like a fog, tendrils crawling forward, searching for the Hibernian heir.

“Come,” he hears. He jumps mentally. “Come,” the voice calls again. An image comes to mind, a deep bay, white cliffs towering on either side. “Come.”

Merlin frowns as he starts to draw his magic back in. He can hear people talking and a hand on his shoulder, shaking him softly. “Merlin,” he hears Gwaine calling. Frowning harder, he pushes the last bit and opens his eyes to white all around them.

“What happened?” he asks, staring at the fog bank enclosing the ship.

“I don’t know,” Gwaine says. “It happens shortly after you closed your eyes.”

“Oh,” Merlin says.

“What things have you been meddling with, boy?” Petit asks, coming forward. His men stay back, eyeing Merlin.

“I…I didn’t mean to. I don’t have complete control of my magic and sometimes it does things without me intending for them to happen,” Merlin says, looking up sheepishly.

“And what was it you were doing then?” the admiral asks.

“Looking for Driant and I think I know where he will be,” Merlin says, standing up shakily.

“Merlin?” Arthur calls from the fog.

“Over here,” Gwaine says and the knight emerges a few seconds later, frowning at Merlin.

“And where will he be?” Petit asks.

“I saw an image of a bay. It looked pretty deep and it had white cliffs surrounding it. I’ll know it when I see it,” Merlin says.

“Let’s hope we find it before we crash in this fog,” Petit says.

As if someone was listening, a breeze picks up, shooing the fog away. Merlin blinks as the sunlight shines through momentarily blinding him. Shifting, he glances to the east over the other side of the ship. His breath catches in his throat. “Admiral, that’s it. That’s the bay I saw!”

“Are you sure?” he asks, turning to look at Merlin.

“I’m positive,” Merlin says, grinning.

“Well then boys, you heard the warlock. Turn our course, we’re making for land!” Petit yells. As his men obey, he turns to Merlin, “I sure hope you know what you are doing, warlock.”

As the white cliffs close in around them, sails are lowered and the oars come out. Dipping them into the water, they stroke backwards, slowing the ship’s momentum. As they slow, Merlin can make out the shore line. A group of people stand on it watching them.

Armed and waiting for them to make land.

~*~


	8. Part 8

**Part 8**   


The sound of the anchor dropping is the only sound as they stare at the warriors on the beach. There is probably only a dozen, not enough to take on their full crew, but the fact that they are waving broadswords makes them cautious.

“Are those…children?” one sailor asks from where he is watching two of the smaller party run about the beach, one brandishing a stick like a spear.

“It looks like it,” Petit says. He turns to Merlin, “Well Queen’s Ambassador, what do we do?”

Merlin looks up at him, “The only thing we can do. We go to meet them. Bring six of your best fighters. I will bring Arthur and Gwaine.”

“We’ll be outnumbered,” he warns.

Merlin shrugs, “It will show we come in peace, not war. And if we could bring something from your treasures as a gift for the Wigend, I’m sure Morgana will compensate you for the loss.”

Petit nods and starts barking orders. An oar boat is lowered as Petit goes to grab something. He brings out a wooden box inlaid with gold and mother-of-pearl. Inside, gold, gems, and spices are fit to burst out. Merlin nods, though he has no idea if this is appropriate.

Merlin shoulders his pack with Aithusa in it and climbs slowly and carefully down the rope ladder. Once everyone is inside, the boat pushes away and the rowers take to their oars, the gap steadily closing up between them and the party watching.

When they are in earshot, one of the people steps forward, a young woman, her hair a deep russet and her skin tanned with blue markings inked into her skin. Green eyes stared back at them. “Welcome,” she says clearly enough to be heard. She raises a hand, and the men sheath their swords, running forward to ground the oar boat. “Welcome, wise one,” a voice says in his ear and he starts as he realizes that she was the one who guided him.

When no one speaks up at her words, Merlin realizes that they are waiting on him, the translator to speak. Putting a steadying hand on Arthur and Gwaine’s shoulders, Merlin stands slowly, planting his feet on the swaying boat.

Merlin bows as much as he can without toppling over. “I am Merlin nó Emrys, here as Morgana de la Pendragon’s Ambassador. We seek Driant mab Drekana, the true Frumgar of Hibernia,” Merlin says, shaping the difficult syllables of the Hibernian language. He is out of practice.

She nods, “I am Gylden, his sister.” She motions to the men waiting with her. “We have been waiting for your arrival.”

Merlin stares at her. “How?” When Gwaine jabs him in the side Merlin realizes that the others are lost. “It’s all right. They are bidding us welcome.” Seeing tense shoulders relax, the men start to get out of the boat, helping Merlin out into the shallow water. Finally on solid land, Merlin staggers onto the beach towards Gylden.

“I had a vision,” she says, tapping him on the chest, right over the crystal. “I saw this and this bay which I had come to before. I saw your face and the Pendragon flag in the crystal. When I came to, I came here with some men and waited. I felt your magic seeking and called you through the fog.”

“You followed a vision?” Merlin asks with eyes wide.

“So did you and you still do,” she says with a smile.

The little boy comes up and says something to her, but Merlin can’t pick out exactly what he says; the dialect strange, even if he knows it is Hibernian. He’ll have to learn quickly if he’s going to be of any use to everyone else.

“May we see your brother?” Merlin asks.

“You will, but you must meet the Twins first. They are the Lords of the Wigend,” Gylden says.

They follow the warriors and Gylden up a narrow winding trail to the top of the cliff. Two men stay behind to tell everyone else what has happened. Merlin tries to explain as best he can what is happening, but even he is at a loss partly.

The building they come upon is huge. It rests on top of a hill. While not as vast or grand as Camelot’s castle, it still commands respect. They enter though two huge doors, the wood carved and inlaid with shells and small semiprecious stones. Shown to a sitting room, they wait for the Twins to arrive.

“You say you speak for the Golden Dragon. Who will stand with you?” Gylden asks.

“Him,” Merlin says pointing to Petit, “and him and him,” Merlin points to Arthur and Gwaine.

“Very well,” she says and walks through another door where they can hear people arguing. She comes back some minutes later. “They will see you now.”

 

Taking a deep breath, Merlin follows her, the others close behind. Merlin stares at the two rulers of the Wigend, seated on their duel thrones. They stare at them as they approach. Æcran mac Laren is tall, with broad shoulders. His head is shaved to the skin. His beard is a light blonde color, framing his frowning mouth. Æcrania mac Laren, his sister, sits proudly, chin held high. Her hair is a color a shade lighter than her brothers, curling around her shoulders, braids and beads poking out here and there. They both have startling pale blue eyes that give nothing away.

“They have come to speak with my brother, Driant,” Gylden says evenly, bowing to the Twins. “They seek an audience with him.” Merlin follows her words, placing each word and meaning. His ear is improving.

Æcran frowns a little more before glancing at his sister. Æcrania nods silently and he looks back at Gylden. “They are welcome here. Bring your brother,” he says evenly. Merlin has a little trouble with his accent, but he understands and gives a little inner smile. Kilgharrah would be proud.

Gylden nods and motions to one of their escort to seek out the Frumgar. He walks off after nodding to her. Merlin turns to the others, “They are sending for Driant.”

When Driant enters the room, the first thing Merlin notices is his slight limp. He recalls Kilgharrah mentioning his limp, a deformity from birth. Although it is covered up by a leather boot, the angle of the foot gives testament to the misshaped bones.

Three women enter behind him, one older and two younger. They were all similar to Gylden, their hair red, eyes a bright green and skin pale. Their skin is marked with blue ink, and though Merlin can’t read what the symbols mean, he knows that to have that many speaks of a long story indeed.

He limps towards Merlin, green eyes fevered and boring into Merlin. “You are the Dragon’s voice?” he asks and Merlin nods. “What does she says?”

Merlin senses something in his voice, a hitch in it, of hopefulness and worry. Merlin smiles a little and bows lowly. “My lord, her majesty Queen Morgana de la Pendragon wishes to honor her betrothal to you.”

Driant inhales sharply at Merlin’s words and his face looks fierce in his devotion. “And the price?”

Merlin straightens under his scrutiny. “My lord, Albion is in threat of invasion. If you regain your throne, the Fisher King will allow you passage. If you wish to marry Morgana, the price is your aid of Camelot and the five kingdoms.”

Driant seems to go completely still and then he looks over at the Twins. Æcrania looks back, smiling and pale eyes fierce. Æcran looks away, unwilling to meet the Frumgar’s heated gaze. “What do you say, my kin? You wanted a sign, well here it is. Now is the time to take up our swords and drive that father killing usurper from my throne and to free our people. If we do this, the Fisher King will answer to us, grant us passage. What do you say?” he asks them.

“I say that—,” Æcrania starts to say.

“NO!” Æcran cuts his sister off who turns to glare at him. No,” he says again shaking his head. “The risk is too great and the gain too little. They do not bring an army to back their words. Instead they bring trinkets. I say no!”

“You are a coward and a fool, brother,” Æcrania hisses at her brother, turning to glare at him.

“Say what you like. If we disagree then we go nowhere. We already are strained to keep this land as ours. I will not listen to anything more.”

“Æcran, you have this land because my ancestor honored your loyalty and oath. My people will side with me as will many of the other clans, even if Galway calls the Blæc Beran to war. But what of you? What will your children and your children’s children think of when they recall your name?”

“They will say he is a coward and a fool,” Æcrania hisses again.

“Enough, sister,” Æcran yells, his hand slicing through the air, bringing silence. “You wish to go to war, but will Hibernia answer to a cripple’s call?” he asks harshly. The warriors behind them murmur softly, stances shifting at the insult to their leader.

Driant shakes his head slightly and the still. “They have before. What use are two legs when I can have four on horseback. They will come to my call.” He shifts slightly forward, staring Æcran down. “Will you ask to test your blade against mine next?” Æcran looks away. “I thought not. Now answer the question.”

Merlin whispers quickly what has happened so far as the silence stretches out between the two men. Arthur glances up at Æcran. “If he wants, he can try his steel against mine,” he says with a hiss.

At that moment, the hall erupted into quarrels, Æcrania in the midst, drawing the short sword at her waist as she started to yell at one of Driant’s men. Æcran storms down from them throne, sliding between her and the other man, arguing with his sister. Merlin watches with wide eyes, waiting with baited breath to see how it will plat out.

Finally, Æcran throws his hands up in frustration. “I will not go to war on a whim’s notice. We will speak more on this later.” He turns to Merlin, “We welcome you Merlin nó Emrys and you gift. Tonight, we will feast in your honor as well as the others and tomorrow, we will speak again. Is that acceptable, Frumgar?” Æcran hisses at the man.

Driant just nods his head in approval. Huffing, Æcran storms from the room, sending his sister a glare. “He spoke wisely,” Drekana says, coming forward.

“Oh yes, he can speak and speak and speak until even our enemies beg him to stop,” Æcrania says with a snort and a glance at the door her brother stormed off through.

“Your brother is just thinking for your people. War is never a light decision. But we have guest and must see to them,” Drekana reminds.

“Of course,” Æcrania says, looking their party over with a pale arched brow. She claps her hands, summoning servants to see to them.

“Do not worry about those two,” a soft voice says next to Merlin. He turns to see Drekana and her daughters, Gylden included, staring at him with small smiles. “They are polar opposites. The trick is finding the balance between them. If you can find that, there is nothing they can’t do.”

“And how do I do that?” Merlin asks desperately.

“You will find away. After all, you were chosen to always find balance in life,” Drekana says with a knowing smile. Before Merlin can say anything else, they turn and leave their group there, servants waiting to take them to their rooms.

Merlin turns to the others. “Well, it seems we must find a middle ground for the twins. If anyone knows away, I’m all ears,” he says, looking at the others.

~*~

Merlin and Arthur are given a room next to Nerecca. It is her sons who will be Driant’s heirs. Should Morgana have any sons, they will never sit on the Hibernian throne. Instead, they will rule over Camelot.

Aithusa gives a happy chirp when Merlin opens his bag. The little dragon crawls out, quickly taking to wing to stretch the cramped muscles. Merlin feels guilty for keeping him in there so long, but the little dragon seems fine with it.

When someone knocks at the door, Merlin is surprised to see Nerecca standing there. Her long red hair is braided and bound up on top of her head. A simple dress made of thick wool graces her shoulders, a belt cinching the cloth at her waist.

“My lady,” Merlin says quickly, bowing slightly.

“Please, may I come in?” she asks. Nodding, Merlin steps aside to let her in. He can see Arthur crouched down by their bed, stuffing something under it. He assumes it is Aithusa since he can’t see the dragon.

“You must excuse Æcran for his harsh words. The Wigend have fought long and hard to secure their land here and have only just started to enjoy peace,” she pauses to look at him. “That war is coming, whether they want it or not is a hard thing to face. And though they do not belong to any of the four houses, they still have loyalty to Read Heorot and our ancestor. If it hadn’t been for him, they would not have this land in the first place. It is the same with all the clans. If not for his work to bring them together, we would not be here today.”

“Will they follow Driant if he goes against his cousin?” Merlin asks.

“They will follow if the Read Heorot wills it to be so,” she says simply and Merlin feels worry set in.

“You yourself should know that if something is meant to happen, it will. Eventually, the Balance will even out,” Nerecca says with a small smile towards Merlin.

Merlin nods slowly. “Come, the feast will be ready soon,” she says and stands. Merlin and Arthur follow her out. Merlin glances back to see Aithusa’s head poking out from under the bed.

~*~

Merlin stands in the shadows as he stares out at the gathering. More of Petit’s men had been brought ashore and the hall is filled to bursting with Albans, Hibernians and Wigend, all drinking and eating. It is certainly a strange sight to see.

Merlin lets Arthur pull him into the crowd, cheers going up at his arrival. Bowing in thanks to the Twins who sit at the head of the table, Merlin settles in to eat. The hall is full of talk, despite the language barrier and soon, songs are being sung around them. Merlin, who has drunk a little more than he should have, grins when he realizes exactly what song the sailors are singing.

There’s a commotion and Merlin glances over to see one of the Wigend warriors poking fun at Arthur, fingering his chainmail sleeve and tapping his sheath covered sword. The area is cleared and there are shouts from both sides for the fight that the warrior is certainly trying for.

Merlin glances at Driant. Merlin arches a brow and the man nods slightly. Standing, Merlin stumbles a little with so much wine in him. “My lord, my lady, let us show you the strength of Alban swords. But let there be no blood drawn. The first to be disarmed is to surrender with honor,” Merlin says, his tongue more fluent than before. He isn’t sure if it is the wine or not.

The Twins nod in approval. Arthur gives him a look but nods. Drawing his sword still sheathed, he faces the man. The man swings his sword, bringing it down in in a blur of steel towards Arthur’s head. Merlin’s heart jumps into his throat as he watches but he doesn’t need to worry as Arthur easily side steps the blow.

Instead of taking advantage of the man’s overbalance, Arthur spins away and faces him again, a small smirk on his face. Roaring, the man comes at Arthur again, from the side. This time, Arthur ducks under the swing, bring his sword up and jams it into the man’s stomach, knocking the wind from him. Spinning, he brings his sword to the back of the other man’s knees and he crashes to the floor, sword falling from his grip to clatter across the floor.

The room is deathly silent, only the sound of the other man’s ragged breathes sounding out. Slowly, he gains his feet and turns to look at Arthur. He grins and bursts out laughing, slapping Arthur on the shoulder. The rest follow suit, laughing.

“I think the princess impressed them,” Gwaine says beside him.

Merlin looks up at his friend, but the man’s eyes are trained elsewhere. “Oh, go on, I know you want to,” Merlin says with a grin.

“You know me too well,” Gwaine says and saunters off. Merlin watches him approach one of the women who have been eyeing his friend the whole night. Grinning, Merlin turns away, wobbling a little.

The evening starts to blur over as Merlin drinks more. Merlin stands before the Twins as they argue like children. It takes him a moment to realize that they are fighting over him. Æcran throws up his hands and turns to Merlin, “You chose then, Ambassador.”

So Merlin does.

~*~

Merlin wakes the next morning with a splitting headache in a strange room. Merlin feels someone next to him stir and he turns to see Æcrania lounging on the bed, head on her hand as she watches him. “Are you all taught to do those things?” she asks him with a sly grin.

“No, my lady,” Merlin says and rubs at his aching head. “Not everyone.”

“That’s too bad,” she says and stands to dress. Merlin watches her pale skin covered in blue ink disappear underneath the clothing.

Someone runs into the room and jumps on the bed. Merlin winces at the noise. “Ohh,” Merlin moans softly.

“Easy, Brodon,” Æcrania says with a smile at her son. “Are you trained to be like that for all royalty?” she asks him, sitting down on the edge of the bed and holding her son.

“It is how I was trained,” Merlin admits, sitting up with the sheets pooling around his waist. Merlin sighs, “I told Morgana I would not be a good Ambassador.”

“You are good with languages,” she says simply, eyeing him. “Besides, I’ve shown you the way to my brother.”

“What?” Merlin asks, looking at her.

“My brother hates not having anything I have. I once got a sword from my father when I was fifteen. Æcran would not shut up until my father got him one as well. No matter what it is, he will have it or one of better quality,” she says softly with a put upon sigh.

“Are you saying he will go to war for me?” Merlin asks, confused.

“No, he will not go to war, instead choosing to stay neutral. But it will incense him to not have you. That is the way you will persuade my brother, Merlin nó Emrys,” she says solemnly. “Though I will admit, you are almost worth war.” Merlin blushes at that but he does smile a little.

“Did you do that purposefully?” Merlin asks her.

“No, I did it for myself,” she says with a cheeky grin. “Tell me, do you think your captain would breed strong sons?”

“Petit Fils?” Merlin says. “I assume so, but I’ve not asked before,” Merlin says with a grin.

Æcrania grins back. “Then I guess we’ll find out if we may die tomorrow. Some things are best done in haste,” she says. She looks down at Merlin, “You should try to remind my brother that.”

“I will try,” Merlin says softly.

~*~

Merlin isn’t the only one suffering from overindulgence. Many are shuffling around with pained expressions on their faces. Merlin has no time to prepare when Arthur storms up to him. The knight grabs him by the arm, dragging him down the hall and towards their shared room.

The door shuts with a thump and Arthur turns to glare at Merlin. “Do you think everything can be solved by falling into a bed?” he asks.

Merlin leans against the door at his back. “Well, seeing as I’ve no sword skill to settle my disputes, I’ll just have to ask for your forgiveness,” Merlin hisses. “Besides, this would have never happened had you not left me alone out there. Maybe, you’re just jealous.” Merlin glares at Arthur.

“I am not—,” Arthur sputters.

Merlin just looks at him, brow arched.

“Fine, maybe I am,” Arthur says quietly. He turns away, shoulders stiff.

“I’m sorry if I upset you, but this is what you get when you send someone like me to be a diplomat and ply me with strong drink,” Merlin mutters.

Arthur sighs and turns to look at him, “At least you were able to choose this time.”

Merlin snorts a little, “I chose all right.” They shared a look and then started to laugh. Merlin groans softly, clutching his head. “Please don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”

“You light weight,” Arthur mutters, pulling Merlin close and running his fingers through Merlin’s hair. Merlin hums in agreement. “What am I going to do with you?”

~*~

Merlin emerges from their room later in the day, refreshed and no long feeling like he’ll shatter. Driant comes to him and ask if he would like to see more of the Wigend lands. Merlin nods, Arthur behind him doing so as well.

Their group is small as they ride: just Driant, two guards, Merlin and Arthur. Around them, the land is slowly waking up. Grasses which for so long have been brown, dead from cold, are growing again under the warm gentle sun. Merlin’s heart beats heavily in his chest, knots forming in his stomach at this sign. Spring has arrived and soon after summer. They really must hurry if they want to help Morgana fight against Arrœk and his massive army.

“So where does your home lie?” Driant asks, coming up behind Merlin.

Merlin startles and looks at him before answering, “That way.” He points west, towards Albion and Camelot.

“Through the lands of my throne steeling cousin, hmm? He will soon be without his head,” Driant comments nonchalantly.

“If Æcrania were to choose against Æcran, would the Wigend follow?” Merlin asks softly, eyeing the ruler.

“Some would, those who thrive on battle. But she will not. Æcrania may be bold in words, but she would never sever her bond with her brother. Their thrones are bound together by sibling love and not chains of necessity. It is what I would like for myself and Morgana. What we both want. Does she still?” Driant asks Merlin.

Merlin smiled, “She does my lord.”

Driant smiles back and turns their path back the way they had come. Merlin quickly explains what was said to Arthur. “I’m going to have to do something else you will not like. Just…go with it and keep your temper in check please. I swear, it is necessary,” Merlin finishes, not looking at Arthur. He hears Arthur’s harsh sigh next to him, but then the knight grips his hand where he holds the reins and squeezes. Arthur understands.

~*~

The next three days are nothing but meetings and talks. As word spreads of their arrival, more people show up, lords from more distant lands; land which are still loyal to the Red Hart, to Driant.

But still, many flock to Æcran who still refuses to go to war. Many refuse to go to war for Albion and back up their lord.

“This seems more like a fool’s errand,” Petit mutters, looking around the gathered people.

Merlin just sighed. They had four more days of this. Merlin had been refusing politely or outright ignoring Æcran’s interest in him. And that didn’t even include the many others who had asked unabashedly. Smirking, Merlin looks up at Petit, “Are you so quick to leave the Lady Æcrania’s bed?”

Petit flushes and mutters something, though Merlin only catches the word “child.”

Gwaine comes up, “Gylden has had a vision. It was of you holding a scale and it was tipped to one side.”

Merlin starts, “And you were able to understand her how?”

“They’ve been teaching me Hibernian in exchange for me teaching them Alban. Besides, you’ve been busy with Queen’s business and I needed something to do,” he says with a grin.

“And has she had any other visions?” Merlin asks, rubbing at his forehead where a headache is starting to form.

“Just one of me. She said she saw me on an island and wondered if I’d ever been to it or planned to,” Gwaine says and shrugs, but his voice seems more subdued.

Gwaine’s words slip from his mind as he is called back over to Driant to speak with another clan-lord who wishes to learn more about Albion.

~*~

The days flow by and soon, it is the day before they must decide or leave. Merlin has seen many things during his stay here, mostly shouting matches between the Twins and their factions. Merlin is tired of all the shouting, but there is not much he can do about it.

Driant sidles up to him where Merlin leans against the wall, watching Æcran and Æcrania argue again. “Tomorrow is the last day. Tell them your decision during the feast,” he says quietly. Merlin nods and Driant walks away to cool some of the hot tempers that are starting to spark.

~*~

At the feast, Merlin waits until the feast is well underway before standing. Driant beats him to it though, standing to address the Wigend leaders. “My lords of the Wigend, you have given me and my people shelter in our time of need and I thank you, but is time we stopped relying on your charity and take back what is ours. We go to slay my cousin who is a throne stealer and a father killer. We ride tomorrow and if I live, I will cross the strait to Albion.” He bowed to the two on their thrones.

Noise brakes out as people start to talk. Merlin takes a breath and walks down the table to kneel in front of them. “My lords, we too thank you for your generosity. Since Prince Driant has made his choice, we will take his words to our Queen. We will be leaving tomorrow as well.”

Æcrania nods in understanding and turns her head to hide her quivering lips where she tries to suppress her knowing grin. She understands what Merlin is attempting to do.

“Wait,” Æcran says, looking desperate. “There is no need for you to depart so soon. At least…stay and have a drink with me…or…” he glares at his sister, “We are the same, me and my sister. You cannot favor one over the other.”

“My lord, I am the queen’s Ambassador. Would you treat me so?” Merlin asks, looking up at the man.

“I have never forced anyone,” he says, “But how can you chose her over me? It is not right,” he hisses.

Merlin shrugs, “My lord, as you desire Albans for their beauty and such, so do we in others, boldness and daring, which your sister seems to have plenty of.”

“And you imply with your words that I lack these qualities?” he asks with a glare. Merlin can feel Arthur close behind him, ready should anything get out of hand.

Merlin shakes his head, looking up at Æcran, “No my lord, your actions do.”

“Tis true,” Æcrania says softly to her brother.

A muscle twitches in Æcran’s cheek as he glares at her. He turns burning eyes onto Merlin, “If it is daring you seek.” He stands; face red with his passion and rage. “The Wigend ride to war to aid our brother. We stand behind the rightful heir, Driant mab Drekana.”

Æcran turns to look down at Merlin. “Is that daring enough for you?” he asks heatedly.

“It is my lord,” Merlin says with a small smile. Behind him, Merlin can hear Arthur’s annoyed sigh, but he ignores it.

That night, Merlin beds Æcran, though he certainly serves the man better than his sister now that he isn’t drunk. Æcran spends the next few days with a grin plastered on his face.

Æcrania stops Merlin in the hall the next day. She slips a ring on his finger, heavy gold wires woven into intricate knots. “For luck,” she says. Merlin thanks her and she waves him off, walking away.

~*~

As the Hibernians and Wigends prepare for war, so do the Albans. It is not their fight, but if Driant is willing to come to their aid, it is only right that they do so as well. Petit instructs half of his men to remain ship bound, in case of their failure. Hey will bring word to Morgana.

They rest prepare as well, including Merlin. Merlin can feel Arthur’s dislike of this plan, that he would rather Merlin had gone onto the ship. It had taken all night and much arguing to convince his knight that Merlin needs to be here.

So they had compromised. Merlin will ride with the army, but he would remain with Driant’s sisters who ride as well. At the back of the procession, it will be safer for all of them. Merlin had wanted to say no, but the look in Arthur’s eyes had stopped him.

They set off at dawn. Men had been sent ahead to rally more people. Those who are loyal will come to the aid of the true heir. Gwaine and Arthur ride with Merlin and Driant’s sisters. Throughout the day as they road, people start to arrive. It starts out as a trickle, a few here and there.

By the next day, they come in groups, standards held high for the Hibernians and Wigend to see: clans from the Grene Hengest, the green horse; from the Fealo Leo, the yellow lion; from the Read Heorot; the red hart, all flock to their leader. None come from the Blæc Beran. None come from the Black Bear until near the end of their journey. Those still loyal and who think that Galway’s treachery should be punished.

They bring news through, of Galway. Others of his people are flocking to his call. He knows his cousin Driant is coming and is raising his own army. They ride on and Merlin shivers as he remembers another journey by horse. He looks at Arthur and sees understanding in his face. This ride may not be as desperate or hard pressed, but it is still deadly.

The night before they are to make it to the capital city, Driant’s home and Galway’s base, they camp out. Merlin sleeps fitfully. Aithusa croons softly from his hiding place under Merlin’s blanket. “I’m just worried about everyone,” Merlin murmurs to the dragon, caressing Aithusa on his eye ridge. The little dragon purrs in pleasure at the touch. “I don’t want anyone to die, least of all for me.”

“You cannot save everyone,” Gwaine says and Merlin looks up to see his friend staring down at him. “And you shouldn’t ask them to not fight. It’s not fair to those who wish to protect you.”

“I know,” Merlin says softly.

Gwaine sits down next to Merlin’s head, running gentle fingers through his hair. “Go to sleep Merlin,” he says softly. Merlin does eventually, drifting off to a dreamless sleep.

~*~

They all sit atop their horses ready to go. It is less than a day’s ride to their destination. Driant paces his horse back and forth, letting everyone see him on his horse. “My brothers and sisters,” he calls out. “You know why we are here. My cousin, my family, killed his own father, tried to kill me and took my rightful throne. This will not be tolerated. We will take back my throne from his bloodstained hands!” They cheer for him loudly. “I am Driant mab Drekana, my lineage is clear upon my skin. But today, you are all my kin. You who fight for me today will always be remembered. Today…”

A hush fell over the area as from the trees, a hart stepped out placidly. His rack was huge, towering over everyone and branching widely. It turned limpid eyes on them, blinking slowly. A shout rose and the creature startled, running over the path and through the trees on the other side, disappearing. “Follow it!” Driant bellows and some six thousand warriors take off after the creature.

Merlin, Gwaine, Arthur and Driant’s sisters and mother remain where they are on the path. They can hear the battle even from here. “They must have been trying to sneak up on us over the night and were caught with their pants down,” Gwaine murmurs.

Merlin swallows heavily as the smell of blood and gore reaches them on the wind. He can hear people’s screams. He turns his horse, hoping to get away from some of the smell and freezes. Coming onto the path is a group of twelve Hibernians. Above them flies the Black Bear.

They grin evilly at Merlin’s group. Merlin starts as one of them goes down, an arrow protruding from his throat. He turns to see Gylden with her bow out, aiming at the men. “Get behind us,” Arthur yells at Merlin as he and Gwaine pull their horses around and position themselves in front of the group.

The Hibernians charge, Gwaine and Arthur holding their ground. There are too many of them though to stop them all. They swarm between and around the two, coming at Merlin and the women. Merlin’s magic jumps at his finger tips and one of them attackers flies off of his horse to land with a wet thud some distance away.

The sound of tearing leather reaches his ears and he looks down in time to see Aithusa pull himself from his pack and launch himself at the nearest target. “No,” Merlin shouts after the little dragon.

Bows twinge around him as the other women start to fire their bows as well. Merlin’s magic whips out again, shoving another attacker away as the man gets too close. Aithusa is onto another attacker, diving at his face, racking sharp claws over him, blinding him with his own blood. The little dragon shoots into the air as an arrow buries itself into his chest.

The battle is over as quickly as it started. Aithusa gives a crooning chip and dives back to Merlin who pulls the dragon close, running gentle fingers over him, checking for injuries. Finding none, Merlin sighs in relief.

As Arthur and Gwaine draw near, someone shout and comes out of the woods. It’s Æcran, grinning feraly. Behind him comes Driant. “My cousin is dead,” he announces to their group. “I have my throne.”

Merlin could have shouted in relief at the man’s words. “What the hell is that?” Petit yells from nearby. Merlin realizes that Aithusa is still out.

“I guess you’re not a secret anymore,” he says softly. Aithusa just rubs his scaled cheek against Merlin’s in understanding.

~*~

Merlin learns later what actually happened. After chasing the hart through the woods, they had stumbled upon Galway’s army that was trying to sneak up on them. They had caught the enemy unprepared in the base of a valley. After that, it had been easy to take them down with the advantage of high ground.

Nearly half remained alive to surrender. A few hundred of Driant’s army had died and they would be sung about for generations to come. As for Galway, he was killed by Driant himself, his head sliced clean from his body. While his body is tied behind a horse to be dragged to the city, his head is carried on a pike in Driant’s hand. Merlin shivers and looks away.

The rest of the day is spent gathering the dead. The enemy are piled high and left to rot in the sun for the carrion birds to feast on. Their dead are burned, each with their own pyre. It is hard work for all. Merlin works among the others, bringing water to the wounded and those building the pyres. The stink makes his stomach roil but he doesn’t let it win.

Four of Petit’s sailors are dead as well. “Do not feel guilt for them, warlock,” Petit says when he tells Merlin the news. “They knew what they were getting into. Those who sign onto my ship know that death is always an option.” He shuffles his feet a little. “I promised the lads something as well,” he admits.

“What is that?” Merlin asks, Aithusa still on his shoulder, tail wrapped around his throat.

“I promised they would be titled…by your hand,” he says softly.

Merlin jerks in surprise, mouth opening and closing. “Me!”

“You are Queen’s Ambassador. It is your right and my men respect you,” he says gruffly.

“But I…I’ve never…” Merlin stammers. Aithusa rubs his gently through Merlin’s hair, trying to calm him.

“They deserve it Merlin,” Arthur says softly next to him. Merlin swallows and nods. So Merlin bestows titles on some twenty-odd sailors in the middle of a battle field. They file one by one in front of him and Merlin, borrowing Arthur’s sword, and lays the blade gently against their shoulders. By the time he’s done, his shoulders ache slightly from lifting the sword so much.

“I’ll call this lot, Merlin’s Boys, then,” Petit says with a laugh. “Give a name to bear with pride.” Merlin flushes but doesn’t say no to the Admiral’s words.

~*~

That night, Merlin sits quietly with Gwaine on the edge of their camp watching the pyre burn low to nothing but embers. “I heard about what you did,” Gwaine says softly.

“I feel like a fraud,” Merlin says softly, petting Aithusa. “They shouldn’t be asking me to do stuff like that.”

“Maybe they should. You give them hope, Merlin. The Queen’s Ambassador is not only the first warlock seen in two generations, but also the first Dragonlord in as many years. You show them that there is still a chance in this desperate race that we are in,” Gwaine says softly, tugging Merlin close by the shoulders, tucking the warlock under his arm.

Merlin looks up just as Gwaine looks down at him. The tension seems to hang suspended for a prolonged moment before Gwaine bends down and kisses Merlin. It’s not passionate or chaste. It is just a kiss and Merlin presses into it, taking comfort from it. Gwaine pulls away. “You deserve everything and more, Merlin,” Gwaine says softly. Flushing, Merlin looks down and presses closer to Gwaine. They spend the night like that, taking comfort from each other like in years gone by.

~*~

The ride into the city is longer than it actually is. It sits on the edge of a river, buildings made of stone and wood. It’s also smaller than Merlin is expecting. The people come out to meet them and for a long drawn out moment, Merlin thinks they will attack them.

Except the tension breaks and they start bowing. Merlin glances up as flowers start raining down and sees women standing at windows, smiling and hands full of flowers. There’s a scuffle ahead and then a group of people emerge. In the middle of them is a woman, her hands bound. It is Vela, Galway’s mother and wife of Driant’s uncle, the Frumgar.

Driant motions and his guards take her in hand, dragging her along with the procession. They reach the castle-like building. Galway’s flags no longer fly. When Merlin looks up, all he sees is the Red Hart fluttering in the breeze.

Driant takes his throne back. Vela is placed before him and he listens to her petition. She stands tall and unrepentant before them. Merlin has a clear view this time as he represents Morgana. He stands to the left of Driant’s throne, trying to keep his face expressionless. This woman is the cause of so many deaths and not just those from yesterday.

Her words, her speech are met with unimpressed gazes. Five pairs of bright green eyes stare her down until her words run out. She will not be swaying any hearts here. Not on this day. Driant turns to look at the Twins. “What say you?”

“You know what we will say, brother. It would be unwise to allow a blood-traitor to live to try again another day,” Æcran says softly. His sister nods.

“And you, Ambassador? What would your Queen say?” he asks Merlin.

Merlin can feel Aithusa’s soft purring against his next where the dragon sits perched. He takes comfort from it and meets Driant’s eyes. “My lord, Vela, wife of the late Frumgar has conspired against not only your throne, but the throne of Camelot and the rest of the five kingdoms. There is no clemency for traitors and throne stealers,” Merlin says, voice even and devoid of emotion.

“Then death it is,” Driant says, turning back to where Vela has turned paler than ever at their words. Before anyone can react, he is out of his seat, sword drawn. Before anyone knows what is happening, Vela’s head is off her shoulders, her body falling to the floor. It twitches a few times before stilling, blood pooling around her.

Merlin looks away, feeling bile rising in his throat. Aithusa croons in his ear and he can feel Arthur’s hand on his arm, squeezing it tightly. The flash of pain helps to clear his head and lets him swallow the bile back. He turns thankful eyes up towards his knight.

“This ends here,” Driant says. “I have taken back my throne and the rightful heir now reins. For those who aided me, you will be honored. For those who didn’t, your lands will be forfeit. Maybe one day you will be washed clean of this dishonorable taint.” There are cheers from the warriors around, other’s slink back, ashamed of their deeds.

The Red Hart is back on his throne.

~*~

Days drag by as affairs of state are seen to. Merlin, for the most part is left alone now that his part in the war is done. Still, he can’t stop fretting over the passing time. Summer is upon them and they are needed in Camelot.

But he has one thing to sooth his fears. While Driant sees to his kingdom, preparations are being made for their departure and crossing of the straits to Albion and Camelot. It will not be an easy feat. They will have a few thousand men and some hundred horses with them and Petit’s flag ship can only carry so much weight.

Driant sends messengers ahead of their departure to the coast, hoping to rally some boats or whatever comes close to water treading devices. So Merlin waits and worries about everyone back home. Aithusa tries to sooth his nerves but it only works half the time.

Time seems to slow as finally, the last things are seen to and Driant’s army is mounted up. It will be a day’s journey to the coast. After which, they will follow the edge, with nothing but towering cliffs until they reach a bay. They will be close to Camelot then. They say sometimes, if the weather is calm enough, you can see Albion’s coast from where they will be headed.

“This isn’t your burden to bear alone,” Arthur says later in the day, riding up next to Merlin.

“I know,” Merlin says, glancing at the knight.

“Then why are you doing so anyways?” Arthur asks.

“If they die, it will be my fault,” Merlin says quietly. “It was me who persuaded them to come.”

“Driant was willing to come before you said a word. He loves Morgana and it is her words that we brought, not yours.” Arthur pauses for a second, “And you did persuade the Twins, but it was their choice to come. You did not force them.”

“I’m afraid,” Merlin says. “You’ve seen the Picts,” Merlin says. “You know what we will be facing.”

“I know,” Arthur says. They ride in silence for the rest of the day, staying close as they ride.

They stop atop the cliffs as they finally arrive at the sea. “Look,” Merlin says and points. Just visible as a thin ribbon of brown and green, lies Albion and home.

~*~


	9. Part 9

**Part 9**   


Merlin can only stare at the bay before them. The people Driant had sent ahead of them had been busy. Boats of all sizes float in the water before them, even rafts. It is an odd fleet, but it is the best they can do.

“This is not going to be pretty,” Petit mutters next to Merlin.

He is right. It takes nearly two days to figure out how to stow everyone onto all the boats, including the horses. Merlin frets the entire time they work, Aithusa on his shoulder. Merlin is next to Driant when a wizened old woman hobbles up to them.

“My lord, you must tell your men not to fish the deep waters. That is the Fisher King’s domain and he does not tolerate trespassers,” she says with a bow.

“I will tell them,” Driant says with a serious nod to the woman. And he does, imprinting the seriousness of his words. They cannot fail in this crossing or all of Albion will be lost. Merlin stands back and watches as Driant gives his speech to his men, his words inspiring. Merlin wonders what it must be like, to have so many placing their very lives in your hand, to have people hanging on your very words. It must be heady and a little terrifying.

With a yell, his men surge forward in a war cry, their blood singing with the battle to come. Merlin swallows nervously. Soon, Merlin is back in the row boat, heading for the flag ship. Gwaine is already there, eyes staring across the waters towards home, though they can’t see its shoreline from here.

“What’s the matter?” Merlin asks, seeing the distant look in Gwaine’s eyes. The last time he had seen Gwaine like this had been after Gwaine had told him that Emrys was not Kilgharrah’s true last name. Merlin still remembers those words uttered from an unseen source. He had regretted learning Kilgharrah’s past because his search for answers had caused the man’s- dragon’s- death.

Gwaine shakes his head, smirking at Merlin. “It’s nothing, just wool gathering.” Gwaine knocks his fist against Merlin’s shoulder gently and saunters off down the deck, calling out to one of the sailors hanging off of the main mast. Merlin’s gut clinched in worry, the feeling that something is coming hanging heavy over him.

Soon they are off with a good tail wind driving them forward, towards Albion. He should have realized that things have been too easy for them. Merlin looks up at yells, Arthur following his glance. They cross the deck to the other side.

One of the rafts is rocking in the water, men shouting and laughing, tossing words of advice and encouragement. One of the sailors placed on the raft is on his back, grappling with a large fish, tuna it looks like.

One of the Hibernians comes forward, grinning with the oar raised to land a heavy blow on the fish’s head. It gives one last wiggle and lies still. Merlin is frozen to the spot as he realizes his mistake. He’d never translated Driant’s words for the Albans. They had no idea that they couldn’t fish here.

The world goes strangely silent, like everything is holding its breath. “No,” Merlin barely gets out before the wind howls around them. Merlin can hear the screams of the panicked horses below deck. Arthur grabs his arm as the ship rocks violently in the wrathful sea.

There’s an odd humming filling the air and Merlin turns around, looking for the source. He can only stare at the towering wave rushing towards their makeshift fleet. It towers higher than their main mast. It shrinks some as it rushes up to them.

Merlin clings to the railing next to Arthur as it lifts their boat up like a toy. He watches as a man not so lucky gets swept away. Merlin’s expecting the wave to shrink back down completely. It doesn’t. It keeps going, carrying them away from the fleet, carrying them south.

~*~

Merlin feels his heart drop into his stomach as an island comes into view. It rises out of the water, a dark thorn in the blue depths. It is mostly flat, but from its center rises a mountain. Merlin can see stone columns standing on top.

As they near, the wave shrinks and slows until their momentum carries them into a bay, cliffs towering around them. Merlin can hear shrieks from above. It doesn’t sound like gulls. One of the Hibernians on the ship yells out, pointing. Two cloaked figures stand on a ledge watching them. Behind them, stairs lead up the cliff face and disappear over the top.

As the ships slows and comes to a stop, Merlin realizes that the ledge comes level with the deck of the boat. “I will go,” Driant says evenly, stepping forward. Merlin can’t help admiring Driant’s resolve.

Still, Merlin steps forward, placing a hand on the man’s arm. “No, I will go. You are needed and Morgana is waiting for you,” Merlin says softly. He can feel Arthur glaring at his back even as he says the words.

“The master will see you,” one of the hooded figures says and starts to point. He signals out Petit, Driant, Merlin, Arthur and Gwaine. Merlin hesitates for a second, but Gwaine shrugs and as a plank is slid across the gap to the ledge, they all clamber across to solid ground.

“Helian will take you to the master,” one of the hooded people says and the second steps forward. Lowering his hood, Merlin sees he is a young man, probably only a few years older than Merlin. “I will see to the rest of your crew.”

Before Merlin can say anything, Helian beckons and they are forced to follow. The stairs are steep and Merlin is wheezing by the time he reaches the top. Next to him, Driant is resilient, going despite the fact that his crippled leg must be hurt him. Straightening, Merlin forces himself to keep going.

Once at the top of the cliff, they follow their guide down a trail. The only word Merlin can come up with for the lands surrounding them is barren. There is nothing green and the smell of death and rot is everywhere.

Merlin sees something circling in the sky up head, but they’re too far away to make out what the creatures are. Helian seems indifferent to the acrid lands around them, just walking ahead. Merlin’s already sweating heavily in the heat and they’ve only just started.

Merlin wants to groan as they come to more stairs, this time up the side of a mountain. They aren’t as steep as the cliff stairway, but there’s nearly three times as many stairs to climb up. Sighing softly, Merlin starts climbing, the rest following.

~*~

The top is nothing but barren rock, nothing growing on it. It is nearly perfectly smooth rock; as if some giant had come along and cleaved the top of the mountain clean off. Around its edge, columns of rock stand tall, stark against the blue sea and sky. A few are missing chunks and one is broken near the top, but the rest stand tall.

A man stands in the center of the circle of stones, his back to them. His hair is white, falling down to nearly his waist. His clothing, though once fine looking, is dingy and dirty, hanging in rags off of his thin frame.

When he turns Merlin can only stare, seeing the power in this man’s eyes. They are standing before the Fisher King.

Merlin can feel the power radiating off of him, awed by it. His knees give out and he falls to the ground. “My lord,” Merlin says.

“Enough, warlock,” the man says, his words rolling like thunder. As if his words alone had broken a spell, Merlin is able to stand up again, no longer weighted down by his power.

“My lord, you gave your word that should I regain my throne, you would grant us passage across your waters to Albion,” Driant says, coming forward. “Why have you brought us to your island?”

“You were warned, Frumgar. And still you and your allies hunted in my waters,” the Fisher King says, voice even. It takes Merlin a minute to realize that he had heard the Fisher King speak in Alban, yet Driant understood his every word.

Merlin shakes himself and steps forward. “You tricked us,” Merlin says. “You knew something like this would happen no matter what. Why have you brought us here?”

“Why?” The Fisher King’s eyes seem to become a dark raging blue, like the sea during a storm. Merlin gulps and takes a step back. “Since before the creation of the five kingdoms, I have been chained to this rock to watch over these waters as punishment for a deed that was not my own and you ask me why?”

“You hold our people hostage,” Driant yells over the howling wind that had picked up at the Fisher King’s anger. “Why?”

At his words, the Fisher King calms, looking over the Hibernian with a curious eye. “You are a curious thing, Frumgar. You are willing to cross uncertain waters to land in turmoil for love. Your sister saw it, in her visions. The Red Hart and the Golden Dragon, intertwined in battle and in love. But you know of only half of a prophesy made long before you were born.”

It clicks then, somewhere deep inside Merlin. He has been trained for this, to see patterns where others see chaos and twisted knots. “You are bound here against your will and you want to break free. But you need two things. One is the union between Morgana and Driant, made in love, not politics. What is the other?”

“Kilgharrah taught you well, warlock. You have a riddle to solve. Figure it out and I will let you free to finish crossing,” the Fisher King says softly, eyeing Merlin. From nowhere, the Fisher King pulls out a golden trident. At his feet, a pool of water bubbles forth. He touches the tip of the trident to the water and it ripples, an image appearing in its depths. Inside, Morgana looks out at them.

“Find the answer and I will aid you in full. Do not and you will never leave this island alive. You have until noon tomorrow,” he says and dismisses them, turning away once more. The water sinks back into the ground, the picture of Morgana gone.

~*~

Helian leads them back down the side of the mountain. Instead of going back the way they had come, he leads them to another trail, around the base of the mountain. A small castle comes into view. It looks run down in some places but most of the walls are still standing.

Inside, Helian leads them to what looks like a common room with many doors leading into it. “You will be sharing rooms for you stay. You will find baths and clothing waiting for you and food will be served shortly,” Helian says.

“And what of the rest of my people?” Driant asks, Merlin quickly translating.

“There is a second island not far from here. Your people have been taken there and will be well taken care of by the villagers there. So long as no harm is done here, they will be kept safe, so I swear,” Helian says, Merlin translating for Driant.

Letting out a tight sigh, Driant nods. “Will the Fisher King be dining with us?” Merlin asks.

“No, warlock. You will share each other’s company,” Helian says. With that, he bows and leaves them to their baths.

They split off and Merlin and Arthur end up in a room again. A servant waits inside for them, head bowed. “You go first,” Arthur says, motioning towards the bath that steams in the corner. Nodding Merlin walks over and starts to strip out of his salt stained clothing. They’re the ones that Mordred had given to him. It feels like that day was a lifetime ago.

Although he wants to linger in the heated water, Merlin forces himself to get out once he is cleaned so that Arthur can go after him. The servant comes forward as Merlin steps out and hands him a towel to dry himself off. He holds out and outfit for Merlin. It’s a little large on his thin frame, he’s lost some weight recently, but the clothing is clean and soft and for the first time in a while, he feels human again.

Thanking the man, Merlin slips out of the room, new boots thumping on the stone floor. Arthur goes in and Merlin goes to the bed where Aithusa has stationed himself, eyes taking in everything around the room. It is well furnished, half damaged tapestries hanging off of the walls, slightly tarnished candle sticks. It all looks like it has been sitting at the bottom of the sea and Merlin realizes that it probably was.

Stroking down Aithusa neck ridge, Merlin shivers slightly at the morbid atmosphere he feels in the room. Arthur takes even less time than Merlin and is soon coming out of the room, looking better now that he is cleaned.

The servant bows and leaves them, disappearing behind a tapestry that must cover the servant’s entrance. Sighing, Merlin follows Arthur as he heads back out into the main room where some of the others are finished and waiting for them.

Once everyone was together, they ate. They ate well that night, most of the dishes made of things caught from the sea. The room is quite for the most part, only the sound of their breathing and their cutlery on their plate disturbing the quiet.

Merlin gazes at the somber faces all around him. He looks over at Gwaine and his friend’s face seems the most somber of all, his eyes down cast, his brow pinched. Aithusa nudges Merlin’s cheek and he feeds another slice of fish to the little dragon.

As the finish and the servants take away the dishes, Petit takes a drag from his goblet and starts to talk. “So we have a riffle to solve,” he says softly.

Standing, Merlin walks over to look out the window. It is dark out and all he can see is his reflection in the glass, the light from the candles behind him like stars in the night sky. He sees Driant coming up behind him before he hears the Hibernian. “You know,” is all he says. Merlin nods. “There’s a price,” he continues when Merlin doesn’t answer.

Merlin nods glumly, staring at his reflection. “There is always a price,” Merlin just says. “To give something, something else must be taken in order for the Balance to be kept.”

“I will pay it if I must,” Driant says evenly.

“What’s going on?” Petit asks, looking between the warlock and the Frumgar.

“Ask Merlin,” Gwaine says evenly. “He thinks he has solved it.”

Merlin looks over at Gwaine, but his friend has his back to him, his shoulders and odd mixture of tension and exhaustion, as if his body can’t decide which to choose. “What have you figured out?” Petit asks, eyes worried as he looks at Merlin.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Arthur asks, staring at Merlin hard.

“No,” Merlin admits with a saddened smile.

~*~

Merlin doesn’t sleep well that night, tossing and turning with his thoughts. He can hear Arthur on the other side of the room, his breathing light and even and it sooths him some. Aithusa chirps softly in his ear and Merlin strokes the dragon’s head softly.

With morning, they all rise, whiling away the hours until they are summoned to stand before the Fisher King. The stairs don’t seem to be as hard to climb this time as they had been before. The Fisher King is standing where they left him yesterday.

“Do you have an answer?” he asks.

When the silence stretches out, Merlin swallows and nods. “Yes, my lord. One of us must take your place.”

“And is one of you willing to take my place?” he asks softly, looking at Merlin.

Merlin gulps, his throat tightening as he forces the words out, “I am.”

“No!” It takes Merlin a second to realize that it is Gwaine who has spoken up. “This is not your sacrifice to make, Merlin. I will stay.”

“What! No, Gwaine, this is my choice,” Merlin hisses, walking over to his friend.

Gwaine shakes his head sadly, gripping Merlin by the shoulders. “Do you remember when I told you of Gylden’s visions?” he asks softly, words just for the two of them. Merlin nods slightly. “She saw me on an island…this island.” Merlin shakes his head stubbornly. “Merlin, you are needed in Camelot. I’m just a drunk who’s good with a sword. If I can do some good in this world by staying on this island, than I will.”

Merlin shakes his head again, but Gwaine just hugs him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers to the warlock.

“Have you decided?” the Fisher King asks.

“Yes,” Gwaine says. “I will take your place.”

“So be it. You will remain on this island and learn under me until such a time as I deem you worthy of taking my place,” The Fisher King says.

“Are we free to cross?” Driant asks as the silence grows around them.

“You will have free passage. And as I promised, I will aid you so much as I can. Come,” he motions and the pool of water from before seeps back up onto the rock. The Fisher King touches it with his trident and it grows dark, showing images.

“I will show you all that has passed in Camelot and the five kingdoms. And I will see your men and horses safely to the shore. Will you see it now?” he asks and looks at Merlin.

Merlin can feel himself trembling slightly. Taking a breath, he shakes his head, “May we have some time?” he asks.

The Fisher King nods. “I will summon you the hour before sundown,” he says.

~*~

Back in their common room, Merlin waits until Gwaine is in the room and the door shut before rounding on his friend. “Why did you do that?” Merlin asks sharply.

Gwaine sighs, stepping towards Merlin. “When I was younger, I had my fortune told once, by an old soothsayer. She told me that my destiny was far away from Camelot surrounded by sea and sky. I never understood what she meant by that until recently. At first I thought she’d meant I was to be a sailor, but then I met you and paths change. The next time I went back to her, she cackled and said my destiny had not changed. In fact it was stronger than ever.”

“Why not tell me?” Merlin asks softly. They’re alone now; the other’s giving them privacy to talk.

“Because I was having too much fun with you to bring it up and you had your own worries.” Gwaine grins impishly down at Merlin. “For the longest time, I thought we would end up together, the rogue and the warlock. And then the princess came and I realized that that would never happen. Besides, knowing our luck, the moment we hit solid ground, that idiot would just swim back the way we came and curse us all. One day he’ll realize just how much he is in love with you. I’d love to be there to see his face when it happens,” Gwaine says with a smirk.

Merlin can feel tears in his eyes. “I would have…with you. All you had to do was ask and I would have in an instant,” Merlin admits.

“Not anymore, Merlin. Your heart belongs to his, as it should be. Just, go easy on him. Our princess is delicate,” Gwaine jokes.

Merlin swallows and looks away, a small weak laugh bubbling up in his throat. “You’ll go mad here, you know. You are the least likely person to be here. There’s no ale for one,” Merlin mutters.

“Then I’ll teach the locals how to brew some. I learned how from one of the brewers,” Gwaine says. “And besides, I’ve got something that the Fisher King doesn’t have?”

“What?” Merlin croaks out.

“A friend who is good with riddles. If anyone can figure out how to get me free, it is you Merlin,” Gwaine says softly.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to get you free,” Merlin says softly, pulling Gwaine into a hug.

“That’s all I ask,” he says softly. “Also, I need to write out my will, for my things. Could you deliver it to Earl? He’ll know what to do and my crew deserves it.” Merlin nods against his chest. “Thank you.”

Merlin pulls back a little. “You call me an idiot for trying to be a hero and yet you’re doing it yourself,” Merlin says softly.

“Can’t let you win them all,” Gwaine jokes. His face grows somber, “Be careful of Nimueh.”

“I will,” Merlin says softly. Gwaine smiles and hugs him again.

~*~

They leave Gwaine in his room as they troop back up the stairs to the Fisher King. He is already there waiting for them when the step onto the top of the mountain. Are you ready?” he asks.

“Yes,” Merlin says and they step up to stand around the pool of water. The Fisher King nods and taps the water with his trident. The water ripples and darkens. When the ripples fade away, an image appears.

“War,” is all the Fisher King says. And it is. It showed first thousands of Picts raining through the passes, armed to the teeth, mouths open in silent war chants. Even with no sound, Merlin can hear it clearly as if he is standing there. Shivering, he looks on. Next it shifts to a view of a river and a burning bridge. “The Gathen River Bridge,” Merlin whispers.

They watch the Picts stare across the raging water at the Alban forces massed there. The Picts cannot cross, but there are still other places they can ford across. There’s an order and the archers fire, raining arrows down on the Picts who turn and flee far enough away from the arrows.

It switches again to the mountains. D’Alene sits in his armor atop his horse, his men ranging behind him. His banner flapping in the breeze behind them, the three snakes stark against the ragged backdrop of the mountains. Merlin’s heart is in his throat, dreading the worst.

“Wait,” the Fisher King says and the image shifts again.

It shows more Picts sweeping into the western pass. Ahead is the Escetian flag flies high and below it, the personal banner of Persant de Dieu, steward of Escetia. Behind him ranges the Escetian army, bracing for the impact of the Pictish invasion force.

Above, D’Alene waits, about to descend upon the unsuspecting Escetians who have eyes only for the Picts in front of them. D’Alene’s hand rises to give the command and Merlin holds his breath. Then confusion breaks out, D’Alene’s men scattering and it take Merlin to realize why.

D’Alene’s own rearguard falls upon their comrades. Peeking out here and there is a banner and it takes Merlin a second to realize just who they are. Dillon’s Men fight for their lost leader, their dead prince in a vain attempt to bring back his lost honor. Merlin can feel tears running down his face as they are slain.

But it had worked; their distraction had allowed Persant’s men to take on the incoming Picts without being caught unawares. Furious, D’Alene motions for them to bring one of the captured men forward, he asks something. The man laughs at Valiant, eyes defiant, even in the face of his own death.

When he answers, Merlin sees D’Alene’s face go white. He hadn’t known of Arrœk’s betrayal. Face contorting, he motions for them to kill the prisoner. D’Alene has his men follow those who escaped and they are forced to watch as the last of Dillon’s Men flee D’Alene and head straight into the Pictish army. They are killed quickly, that much can be said.

Valiant, seeing this, turns his men around, unseen by Arrœk’s forces. He flees, back into the mountains, his men following. The image leaves Valiant and turns back onto the main battle as the Escetian forces battle on. Merlin can see flags from the other kingdoms, troops sent to help defend the five kingdoms: Escetia, Mercia, Acestir, Tintagel, but no Camelot. All of Camelot’s troops are centered on keeping the eastern pass defended.

Merlin blinks as a familiar face comes into view, Kay l’Ector’s face in a scowls as he fights beside his men. The battle is even for a while but more and more Picts pour out of the pass and soon, the Escetian army is overwhelmed. The order to retreat is called and the army pulls back.

Merlin watches as the archers stand grimly behind the retreating army, securing their flight. Most of them die, the rest saved by L’Ector’s Calvary. They fall back to Fæstenn, a fortress right on the border between Camelot and Escetia.

Morgana is there, to stand or die. It is the same image that they had seen the first time and Driant makes a noise in the back of his throat at the image of her. It fades away to reveal a map. “The Camelot army is here,” the Fisher King says, pointing, stations at Highpass and along the river, keeping the Picts from breaking through and coming up behind the rest of the army. Morgana and the main army are in Fæstenn and the fighting has come to a standstill. They are well stocked and can withstand a siege for up to a month, two if they ration.”

“But even then their food supply is limited,” Merlin says, “while the Picts have the whole kingdom to forge from. It’s a waiting game until they are forced out.”

“Cowards,” Petit mutters, glaring down at the map.

“More troops do come. Duc L’Ector has sent a request to his Emperor who has granted him foot soldiers, but they will be some days in getting there and may not arrive in time. The other kingdoms are sending more troops as well, but they are spread thin at the moment trying to protect their own borders should Camelot and Escetia fall.”

The Fisher King turns to Petit, “Your men are at the river, helping the Camelot army with the Escetian fleet.” Petit nods in approval.

“Where is D’Alene?” Merlin asks.

The Fisher King points, “He has holed himself up in a valley here.”

“And Nimueh?” Merlin asks.

“I do not know this woman and only the large events can be shown in the pool,” he says. He straightens, looking at them. “I cannot leave this island. But I can help you get to Albion faster. Where do you need to go?”

Merlin looks at Petit. “To the mouth of the Gathen River,” he says. “We’ll meet up with the rest of my fleet there and then sail up the river.”

“Tomorrow at dawn then,” the Fisher King says and the water lightens and starts to seep back into the ground. “Be ready.”

They leave and head back down the stairs. They are all quiet, lost in their own thoughts when they return to their rooms. Merlin glances at Gwaine’s room and sighs before heading to his room. Aithusa chirps softly from his spot on the bed, curled up. Smiling down at the dragon, Merlin slips out of the clothing and crawls under the blankets, hoping that sleep will be easier to get tonight.

~*~

Merlin wakes up to the fire burning low and the windows still dark with night. He’d been able to get a few hours’ sleep, but his thoughts wouldn’t sit still for long. Slipping out from under the blankets, Merlin pads out of the room in his night clothes, bare feet tapping against the cold stone.

He pauses outside Gwaine’s room before pushing the door open without knocking. He’s not surprised to see Gwaine is still awake in bed. Gwaine doesn’t say anything, just lifts the blankets for Merlin.

Sliding into the bed, Merlin curls up next to his friend. “I couldn’t sleep,” Merlin admits softly. “Camelot’s going to be so different without you there.”

“I know,” Gwaine says.

“Why do you have to be such a stupid hero?” Merlin asks, clutching at Gwaine’s knight shirt, pressing his face into Gwaine’s chest.

“I guess you and the princess rubbed off on me,” Gwaine says softly, running a hand down Merlin’s arm.

Grabbing Gwaine’s shirt tighter, Merlin pulls the man down, kissing him, trying to get as much of Gwaine as he can before he leaves. Gwaine sighs into the kiss and presses back for the barest moment before he pulls Merlin away. “No,” he says softly.

“But-,” Merlin starts.

“No, Merlin. Don’t think this is the only way you have to say goodbye, please. I don’t want you to be that way with me. And I don’t think I’ll be able to stop myself if you keep doing that. You never have to be that way with me,” Gwaine says softly.

Merlin’s eyes fill up and he presses his face back into Gwaine’s chest. “I hate you so much,” he mutters into Gwaine’s chest.

Gwaine chuckles, “I know.”

“I’ll miss you,” Merlin says again.

“I know,” Gwaine murmurs. They fall asleep like that, tangled together.

~*~

They set sail with the dawn. Merlin stands at the back of the ship, watching as the island steadily grows smaller. On the very top, Gwaine watches them leave. Merlin cries again, a piece of his heart staying on the island. He’ll return one day to his friend.

Arthur is a silent presence behind him. When he can no longer make out Gwaine, Merlin dries his tears, straightening his shoulders. “We have a war to get to,” Merlin says finally, turning to look at Arthur.

“Merlin,” Arthur starts to say.

Merlin shakes his head, “Please don’t. I know this was for the greater good, but it still hurts.”

“I was going to say that I’ll help you free him, whatever it takes,” Arthur says softly, looking at the warlock.

“Oh,” Merlin says and smiles a little. “Thank you.”

The humming noise from before started up and behind them, a wave rose. Slipping under their ship, it rose and carried them northward, towards the Gathen River’s mouth where it plunges into the sea. What felt like forever only took about a day. As they neared the shoreline, the wave shrank and dissipated until they were sailing under their own power.

Ahead, they could make out the rest of their fleet. They had been brought ahead. They are camped upon the sandy shores and when they saw the flag ship, Hibernian and Alban alike let out a cheer. Men swim out and mooring lines are tossed down. The row boat is lowered and soon, the crew is back amongst everyone else.

There had been loses. Fifteen men and four horses had been lost to the Fisher King’s anger when he had first appeared. Everyone else is alive and though it hurt Merlin to think about it, Gwaine sacrifice saved them all. More would have been lose had he not remained.

Petit wastes no time in gathering his men. He selects his fastest rider to head east further into Camelot. The Comte de Dieu, the Royal Commander, would be seeing to the defense of Camelot and the Highpass just north of the Gathen River and so would the rest of Petit’s fleet.

“They will bring my fleet,” he tells Driant, Merlin translating. Driant nods in understanding. That night, they camped on the beach, waiting for the ships to arrive.

~*~

They move out in the morning, along the river. Only a few ships besides the flag ship are in good enough shape to make the journey up river. So most of the army travels on foot, Merlin with it. They travel like this for nearly two days when the pounding of horse hooves brings the army to a stop as their messengers arrive back.

“My lord,” one of the sailors cries out from atop his horse, “Your fleet.” As he says it, the ships come into view, their sails bulging in the wind as they sail down the river. There are cheers all around as the ships slow and finally stop, anchors dropping to the riverbed. There are over thirty ships all told and it is like a forest of masts.

Petit is quick to send out orders, organizing the stowing of men and horses on board his ships. When the last man and horse is on board and the sails drop, a wind rises from behind them, catching the sails. The Fisher King is keeping his promise of help. With the wind behind them, they sail up the river, towards war.

~*~

Even with the wind, it is slow going up the river and it takes them another day to make it far enough west. There are plenty of men to man the oars when the wind slacks and dies down. They make it through and during that time, the sailors tell them what has been happening.

It seems that Morgana had indeed gone through with her decision and Cenred de la Escetia had been called back from exile. He is commanding half of the troops to hold the border with the Comte de Dieu. They had burnt all the bridges that the Picts could use to cross and they are holding off any attempts to cross at the shallower points in the river. The ships are keeping the rest of the river secure.

As they round a bend in the river, the sounds of battle can be heard. Looking ahead they can see the Picts massing at the first bridge. In Petit’s fleet’s absence, they had started to repair the bridge. The archers across the river are trying to hold them off, but the Picts have started thinking and use their shields clustered together to shield the works.

A few hundred have made it across, the rest pressed back by the archer. The fleet has arrived just in time. The ships turn and ground the ships along the river’s edge. The moment planks are lowered, Driant’s army boils over the sides, singing war chants and yelling battle cries. It’s not surprising that the Picts break ranks and run.

It’s over quicker than Merlin expected. Nearly all the Picts have been slain and those that survived had either been captured or had escaped back into the pass and into the mountains. The Hibernians return blood spattered and victorious. On the other side of the river, the Camelot army cheers. At its head is Pellinore, seated regally on his horse and coming up behind him, Cenred, eyes burning fierce.

It takes nearly fifty men to move the firmly stuck flag ship from the river bank. The fleet will remain here to keep defending the river and Highpass while Driant’s army follows them westward, towards Fæstenn and Arrœk.

As Merlin gets out of the row boat on the other side of the river, Pellinore and Cenred come forward to greet them. They nod to Petit as he stands behind Merlin. Pellinore arches a brow at the admiral, “I didn’t believe it when your messengers told me.” Coming up behind Merlin is Driant, Æcran and Æcrania behind him.

Merlin steps forward, “My lords, this is Driant mab Drekana, the Frumgar of Hibernia. And this is Æcran mac Laren and Æcrania mac Laren, the Lords of the Wigend.” Merlin repeats it to the others so they will understand. They nod to the two lords.

“It is good to see you, Merlin,” Pellinore says softly to Merlin and Merlin nods. Pellinore had been a friend of Kilgharrah’s.

“My lord, there is not much time to tell our tale, but the short of it is that I have done as Her Majesty has asked and brought the Frumgar and his army to help aid in stopping this invasion,” Merlin says.

“Indeed you have. Bring the rest ashore and we’ll get to work on how to go about our march to Fæstenn,” Pellinore says motioning to them to follow him.

~*~

They gather in Pellinore’s tent. A wooden foldable table is there, map spread across it. “They’re holed up inside. With a deep well, they have plenty of water, but even with the fort well stocked, they can’t last forever,” Pellinore says, pointing to the point on the map where Fæstenn is.

“How many Picts?” Merlin asks, already guessing the number is high.

“Thirty-odd thousand,” Cenred says nearby, leaning against a chest as he stares at them. Merlin quickly translates for Driant and the others.

“What about in the fortress?” Petit asks.

“We’re unsure of how many losses we took. Seven thousand before the battle started. The fortress is nearly impenetrable. There are trenches and stake pits all around it, plus archers along the wall. There is also a second wall inside as well. But we’ve been getting reports of the Picts working on something. They think it might be siege towers, but none have gotten a good look just yet.”

“Any word from the Emperor’s troops yet?” petit asks.

“None,” Pellinore says. “They were supposed to have arrived two days ago, but something has delayed them it seems. We can’t rely on the hope that they will arrive in time.”

Merlin frowns at the map, recalling his time amongst the Picts. “There may be something else we can do. Arrœk’s army is full of individual tribes and clans. Many have been feuding for years now, bad blood between them. If we can just break his discipline over them, they might turn on each other,” Merlin says looking up.

“And do you propose we do that?” Cenred asks, eyeing Merlin.

“The Picts have never seen the Hibernians. You saw what happened on the battle field today when Hibernians came at them. They were afraid. They broke ranks and ran. We can use that to our advantage,” Pellinore says. “They’re a superstitious bunch from what I’ve seen. We could harry their troops. But, we’ll need someplace to retreat to in the mountains.”

Merlin holds off on translating, “How many of us would survive?”

Pellinore looks at him. “None. We would survive by pure luck. But it’s the only way to help at the moment. It may be slim, but it’s worth a shot.”

Nodding, Merlin turns and translates for Driant and the Wigend. They’re faces are somber as they take in Merlin’s words.

“I’m willing to take them back. We didn’t ask them to commit suicide for us,” Petit says softly.

Driant seems to understand though because he speaks before Merlin can start, “And what of your friend Gwaine?” Merlin swallows. If I do not wed Morgana, if I die or she does, the curse remains unbroken. There will be no way for us to return home when the very seas will swallow our attempts. Not even you could sing down his wrath at that,” Driant says softly.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says softly.

“You only did as you were commanded, but my destiny is my own and I will follow it to its end. I will give my people a choice though. To go against this army or to go against the Fisher King.” Driant nods and he and the Wigend leave to speak with their people. Merlin translates his words.

“Understandable,” Pellinore says. “But I will be going with you, warlock. My sons are in Fæstenn and I will be by their side, no matter what.”

~*~

Merlin finds Arthur on the edge of the war camp seated under a tree. Above, the stars shine down in the thankfully clear night. Throughout the camp, fires burn as Driant’s people talk into the night, deciding their fate.

“Do you think there will be any knights you know there?” Merlin asks quietly.

“Probably. I knew a few of them from training had gotten positions in courts: Marrok and Balin, Percival and Elyan, Gwen’s brother. They all will be there to protect their charges. I haven’t seen them since I was made your knight,” Arthur admits. “I wonder, do they think me a murderer?”

“If they know you truly, they will not believe it,” Merlin says softly.

Arthur snorts humorlessly. “Perhaps and perhaps they think I have changed. It’s happened. Serving as a knight is a hard life sometimes.”

“I don’t know what to tell you Arthur. If they think it of you, then it means we will have to try harder to get to Fæstenn to prove to them that you are not what they have heard,” Merlin says.

“If we can survive it,” Arthur says softly.

“There is that,” Merlin agrees. He leans against Arthur’s side, the knight tucking him under his shoulder.

~*~

With the sun comes Driant’s answer. “We will stay and fight,” he says simply. Pellinore nods at Merlin’s translation. “But, should we fall, we want word to be sent to our home so that each and everyone will know how we fought in bravery and honor for freedom.”

Merlin steps forward, eyes saddened but hard, “I promise it.” Merlin looks at Driant. “Whatever it takes, they will know of your deeds.”

Arthur makes a soft sound behind him, the knight having understood some of what was said. But he doesn’t say anything as Merlin translates for Pellinore and the rest.

“Then it is settled. We ride out a dawn tomorrow,” Pellinore says.

~*~

Another dawn and they are moving again. Merlin bids farewell to Petit who is staying to guard the river with his fleet and sailors. Cenred remains as well, holding the pass with his men. A quarter of the Camelot army follows them. The sailors who Merlin had titled are released to go with Merlin, guards for the warlock. Merlin wants to protest, but the sailors ignore him with knowing looks on their faces.

Merlin just sighs and lets them come.

They travel along the river for the day and camp on its shores. In Pellinore’s tent, Merlin begs off a piece of parchment. Sitting down, he quickly drafts a letter. Blowing on it gently to dry the ink, he hands it to the sailor who has just entered the tent. “I need you to ride this to Camelot. It is for Queen’s Poet, Juliana de Listinoise.” The sailor sketches a bow and leaves, clutching the parchment in his hand.

“What was that about?” Arthur asks, watching the sailor leave.

“It was in case we do not make it. Juliana can fulfill my promise to Driant to bring their story to Hibernia,” Merlin says simply, looking up at the knight.

“I’ll protect you, to the end I will protect you,” Arthur says quietly, his gaze intense as he stares down at Merlin.

Merlin smiles sadly and nods, “I know you will, my knight. That is all I can ask of you.”

~*~

The next morning, they turn away from the river. It will soon turn north and they need to head west if they are to reach Fæstenn to be of any help. They do turn slightly northward for half a day, taking a longer route to avoid being detected by Pictish scouts.

In the rolling hills of the north, they arrive at the western pass. It has mostly been left clear, Arrœk’s army further south attacking Fæstenn. A few groups linger south of the pass, scouts to warn Arrœk of anyone approaching behind.

It takes only a small force sent against the lingering Picts to take them out, none escaping. With the way clear, their army heads south, towards Fæstenn. Hidden in the hills, they arrive unnoticed. Any scouts that see them are taken out by their own Hibernian scouts, experts at stealth.

They find Arrœk’s army amassed around the fortress. “There’s so many of them,” Merlin says softly, laying on his belly and staring down at the thousands of Picts. It’s one thing to see them through scrying, another to see the numbers first hand.

“There,” Pellinore says pointing to where the Picts have already raised a few siege towers. They are ready for use and only need to be pushed up against the wall of Fæstenn’s wall. “That will be where we strike. It should slow them down and cause enough damage to make them come after us.” Merlin gulps and readies for flight.

~*~

“Could you use magic?” Arthur asks as they wait for dawn to come. Driant has already taken his men closer to the Pictish army in preparation to attack just before the sun rises.

“I don’t know. Maybe, if I was close enough. I could light fire to the siege towers. I never learned battle magic though,” Merlin says softly. Merlin glances up as one of their scouts comes riding up. “They’re attacking,” he says.

They ready their mounts. The moment that the Hibernians appear, they press their heels to the mounts side, spurring them forward. Behind them, Merlin can hear the roars and yells of the Picts following them.

There’s a shriek and Merlin glances up to see Aithusa following in the sky, wings outstretched. Merlin glances back once and his heart seems to stop as he sees the masses of Picts following. Turning back forward, Merlin spurs his horse faster. They flee into the mountains, drawing the Picts after them.

Merlin knows the traps are there, but it still hard to believe when they are triggered and the Picts are taken by surprise. The avalanche of rocks and boulders takes them by surprise and they have no time to escape as they are crushed. It’s a horrible sight to behold.

They had timed the release just so that they caught the tail end of the following Picts, blocking off an escape route. They flee deeper into the mountains and higher up, the archers take aim, firing calmly and steadily down at the Picts.

As the archers run out of arrows they fade back into the crags of the mountain. They can survive better on their own. What remains of the Picts follow their retreat further into the mountains. They pick them off a bunch at a time until eventually they are deep in the mountains and the Picts following are no more.

They camp that night knowing they hadn’t done much of a difference. So they had taken a few hundred, maybe a thousand out. There are still thousands more besieging Fæstenn. Merlin stares glumly at the fire, poking at it with a stick.

A Hibernian scout comes up to Merlin speaking quickly and quietly, pointing to the south. “What is he saying?” asks Pellinore.

Merlin turns wide eyes on those gathered around the fire, “he says there’s an Alban army encamped in a valley a mile south of here.”

~*~

“It’s D’Alene,” Pellinore says.

Merlin quickly explains who D’Alene is to Driant who frowns at the information. Merlin, wide awake, goes to speak with the scout some more. Afterwards, he seeks out Pellinore tending to his horse. “My lord, how many more warriors would you need to take on Arrœk?” Merlin asks softly.

Pellinore frowns, “Ten thousand, maybe less if we could somehow coordinate with those in the fortress. Why?” he asks, eyeing Merlin.

“I have an idea,” Merlin says simply.

~*~

“This is a mad plan,” Arthur hisses as the army breaks camp to start marching south. They leave the horses with a guard. They will need stealth if they’re to sneak up on D’Alene unawares.

“If you can come up with some alternate solution to finding more men to fight, then by all means, spit it out,” Merlin says back. Around them the forest is nearly silent except for the soft rustle of leaves. Merlin’s eyes glow in the dark, hiss magic sizzling under his skin, the only thing keeping D’Alene’s scouts from hearing their approach.

It takes so little time to surround the valley that D’Alene is in. The few sentries he had posted are taken out silently, no sound beyond a soft thump as they drop to the ground unconscious. Then they wait and listen, watching the camp down below.

As the sun breaks over the mountains, Pellinore signals and his man steps forward, blowing his battle horn, others following the signal and blowing as well. The army stands up along the edge, banners fluttering in the breeze and spears clashing against spears. It is certainly a sight to behold.

D’Alene’s troops are taken completely by surprise. Merlin looks at them and sees hungry, desperate faces. Maybe this won’t be as hard as he had thought. One alone stands and stares up at them, fearless, hand gripping his sword hilt.

Duc Valiant d’Alene, traitor of Camelot and the five kingdoms.

“Valiant d’Alene!” Pellinore calls down. “We send messengers under a white flag of peace; will you honor the codes of war?”

Valiant gives a bow to the words. Two men are sent down, one a white banner held in his hands. As they reach the bottom of the valley, they are surrounded by D’Alene’s men and checked for weapons. Merlin waits with baited breath to see if Valiant will honor the flag.

He does, listening to their message. Looking up at their gathered troops, Merlin can see the way his shoulders sag in defeat. Standing straight, he motions to one of his men and they bring a horse forward. He and five men ride up the winding trail to the top of the valley.

Armed and covered in armor, he rides through the masses of soldiers to dismount in front of Pellinore. “I have come as bid. What do you want?” he asks with eyes like ice.

Pellinore shakes his head. “Tis not I that will speak with you. The Queen’s Ambassador will speak with you,” he says and motions Merlin forward.

Merlin steps forward slowly and bows slightly to Valiant, “My lord.”

“You,” Valiant says sharply, eyes narrowing. Merlin just remains silent, staring at the man. “Kilgharrah’s warlock, I thought you lost amongst the Pictish wilds. I remember Nimueh asking me to have my men take you there, for ‘safe keeping’ as she put it. I had no hand in your lord’s death,” he says sharply. Merlin remains silent.

“Why have you come here?” he asks, staring around at the mixed armies.

“My lord, we have come to give you a choice: you may die here a traitor, hated across the land and sea and no one will remember your name.”

“Or?” Valiant asks wearily.

“Or you can fight with us and die with honor as the man who helped save Albion from invasion. It is your choice,” Merlin says simply.

“And why should I believe this?” Valiant asks.

“Because you are dead no matter what you chose,” Merlin says. “Arrœk will not let a Nædre live poised so close to his throat. He will cut its head off before he allows you to stab him in the back.” Valiant pales as Merlin used the Pictish name he has been given. “Nimueh is in league with him. There is no escaping this.”

Valiant is silent as he takes in Merlin’s words. Merlin wishes he could read his thoughts as he turns to stare down in the valley where his men wait. Finally, he turns back to them, “Will you feed them?” he asks. “Morgana has cut off our supply trains.”

“We will,” Pellinore says.

“What is it that you propose?” he asks, eyeing the commander.

“A united assault on Arrœk’s forces. We strike hard and fast, pinning him between the fortress and us,” Pellinore says evenly.

“Arrœk is mine,” Valiant says quietly, his eyes hard.

“Swear your loyalty and he will be,” Pellinore says back.

“You have it,” Valiant says softly.

~*~


	10. Part 10

**Part 10**   


The descent into the valley is tense, everyone watching D’Alene and his men. But he keeps his word and no move is made against them. The moment the entire army is in the valley, Pellinore starts sending out orders, orders to start making camp and to start rationing food off to D’Alene’s men.

Valiant stands off to the side and for a moment; his eyes are on Merlin and Arthur. He smirks and turns and leaves. “If we didn’t need him, I’d kill him where he stands,” Arthur says darkly, watching Valiant’s retreating form. “Why are you so willing to trust him?” Arthur asks, turning to look at Merlin.

“He was a hero once. No matter what he is now, he knows the feeling and even though he won’t live, he’d rather die a hero,” Merlin says softly.

“Why is Nimueh doing this?” Arthur asks silently. “She could have gotten Camelot with him.”

Merlin shakes his head. “The Picts would have still invaded. No Nimueh plays this game for high stakes. Why gain one kingdom when she could get an empire. Either way, she would gain, no matter who wins,” Merlin says, rubbing at his eyes in weariness.

“How could she willingly do this? She’ll have blood on her hands and she doesn’t even blink,” Arthur says softly.

“I don’t know,” Merlin says. They follow Pellinore through the camp as they ready to meet. They talk well into the night, discussing strategy and tactics. Merlin is there to translate, but eventually, they finish discussing everything. Merlin is exhausted from the walk to the valley and his use of magic. When the meeting breaks up, he and Arthur find their tent and collapse for a few hours’ sleep.

When they rise, it is late afternoon and the camp is alive with activity. With a strategy, they are making ready to march. While they had slept, men had been sent to get their horses and the rest of their men who had guarded them.

Dawn is a quiet affair as they file man, horse and pack mule back out of the valley. On his horse back on top of the valley, Merlin watches and feels uneasy, like he’s missed something. Something important and can’t recall what just yet.

Merlin rides silently beside Arthur back through the mountains, the feeling not letting up. As they reach the hill lands again, Merlin can’t stop from feeling hopefully. They’re finally going to do something and not run. He may be about to go to his death, but at least he will have done something to try and save his home.

~*~

The night before they are to attack, Merlin sits on the outskirts of the camp, staring up at the sky. Silently, he prays to the Balance, prays that they’ll survive, that they’ll make a difference, for guidance on what he should do.

Merlin gasps as he feels magic swirl around him and his vision goes gold. An image appears before him. It shows him with a scale in his hand.

You will know…

Just as quickly as the magic appeared, it’s gone and Merlin falls over, gasping for breath. Looking around, Merlin sees that he is still alone. No one had noticed him. Shaking himself, Merlin gets up on shaky legs and looks for Pellinore.

They’re on the other side of the camp looking out at Arrœk’s army. They can see Fæstenn from here. Arrœk’s army surrounds it. The defenses around the main wall are gone, unable to stop the overwhelming numbers. The siege towers stand around the walls, of the four that they can see, two are charred husks. Of the other two, only one seems stable enough to be used against the people in the fortress it is just out of range of the archer’s bows.

“We can only hope that those in the fortress will recognize us and know to attack as well,” Pellinore says softly, eyes hard.

“They won’t once they see the D’Alene snakes,” Valiant says with a hint of morbid humor.

“My son is not stupid. When he sees the Frumgar’s Red Hart, he will know it is us,” Pellinore says.

“Will they even be able to see it from a distance such as this?” Valiant asks, eyeing the commander. Pellinore doesn’t say anything, the two men lost in thought.

Merlin stares out at the enemy camp and feels his heart skip a beat. From here, it’s hard to make out, but Merlin can see them: the slaves, women and men, all taken when the Picts had raided towns and villages between here and the mountains.

Merlin watches them silently, unable to look away as his own memories play back through his mind. He can feel Valiant’s gaze on him, but he ignores the man. Nothing he can say will ever change what has happened to him.

~*~

Merlin wakes sweating to darkness in his tent. Beside him, Arthur is dead to the world, sleeping peacefully, or as peacefully as one can sleep before battle. Aithusa is curled next to him, asleep as well. Merlin can feel it though, the rise of magic, pressing down on him.

Now…

He hears it clearly. Slipping silently from under his blankets, Merlin leaves the two to continue sleeping. Out in the camp, it is cool, the moon slowly rising into the sky. Before Merlin had lived with Kilgharrah, he had lived in the Court who taught their people how to move unobserved, invisible, silently.

He knows Arthur will hate him for this, but it needs to be done. It’s not hard to travel the length of the camp to where Valiant has set his tent. The man comes awake the moment Merlin kneels beside his bedroll, eyes shining in the dim light, trained straight into Merlin’s.

“What do you want?” he asks softly.

Merlin stays silent for a moment before answering, “They will be ready for the attack.”

“You’ll be captured or killed,” Valiant says, sitting up to look at Merlin.

“Not before I can deliver my message,” Merlin says. “The camp is full of slaves. None will notice me until it is too late. Morgana will know we are here.”

“You little idiot, Arrœk will make you talk and you’ll give us away,” he hisses.

Merlin smiles sadly, “No, my lord. I will not.” He must see the light reflecting off of the golden specks in Merlin’s eyes because he frowns, Merlin just able to make it out in the light.

“Why have you come to me?” he asks eventually.

“Because, my lord, you are the only one who will not stop me,” Merlin says. “I just need help past the sentries. I can save so many lives with this. You had your choice of death, at least give me mine.”

Merlin waits silently, holding his breath. Finally, Valiant nods, getting up to get dressed. It takes little time for Merlin and Valiant to leave the tent. Merlin trails behind the man, waiting until he has one of the sentries distracted.

Pulling his magic around him like a cloak, Merlin slips by them unnoticed, a shadow amongst the shadows. It is not easy going by day and at night; it is even harder to remain silent. Merlin freezes every time he hears a sound. His heart has been beating fast and hard the whole way to the enemy camp, but eventually, he makes the camp unnoticed.

It takes some wiggling to get through the bulwark built up around the camp and for a second, something snags on the rough wood. Merlin freezes as cloth tears and he waits with baited breath, but none stir to check out the sound.

Pulling gently, the cloth of his sleeve rips, leaving a small bit of it behind. Unfazed, Merlin jumps down on silent feet behind enemy lines. Between him and the wall lies thousands of Picts. Gulping softly, Merlin starts to make his way, using his magic as sparingly as possible.

The outer most camps are easy to slip by, following the dividing lines between clans and tribes, knowing where to walk to go unnoticed through the slumbering men. Some of them are awake though, but what do they see, a young Alban, dirty and shivering in fear. Merlin angles his path towards the slave pens, hoping they’ll think he is returning to them. They do, thankfully, none stopping him.

Merlin’s luck runs out though as he trips over an unseen spear thrown across the path, sending him falling to his hands and knees and sending a spear clattering to the ground. The Pict that they belonged to stirs, looking up at him. “Where are you off to, little one?” he asks in Pictish. “Come here,” he says again, holding out his arm.

Merlin freezes and looks down at the face of a young slave woman. They seem to speak silently because she turns over, murmuring nonsense, pulling the Pict closer. The man doesn’t understand her, but he knows her intent and he laughs, pulling her closer. Merlin, heart in his throat, waits silently, but the Pict seems to have forgotten his presence completely.

Merlin sends a silent prayer for the woman’s safety and keeps going. He comes upon one of the burnt out siege towers, it’s upper half leaning against the wall. Clenching his hands into fists hard, Merlin squares his shoulders and starts to climb.

He ignores the pain of splinted driving under his skin and keeps climbing. He goes up and up and eventually, he is high enough to look into one of the narrow window slits in the wall. Clutching the burnt wood tightly, Merlin breaks off a piece and quickly tosses it into the window, hoping that it is manned.

There is a flicker of light and then Merlin is blinded temporarily by a torch and just makes out a crossbow being aimed at him. “Hold!” he yells out to the soldier. “In the name of the Queen hold!”

A shout goes up as the Picts awake at his voice, stirring and starting to swarm the base of the tower. Turning to the soldier, Merlin reacts quickly, “Tell the Queen, tell Morgana that Kilgharrah’s other pupil has done her bidding!”

That’s all Merlin can get out before there are hands on him, pulling him back and down. He holds on for a moment waiting for the soldier to nod. When he does, Merlin lets his hold go and falls back, his fall only being stopped by the Picts dragging him down.

Merlin is thrown to the ground in a ring of Picts. “What are you doing? Did you think you could gain the castle, slave?” One of them yells. “He can’t understand you,” Another says.

A hush falls around them as the wall of Picts opens up and someone walks through. “Oh, I think he understands you perfectly. Don’t you, Merlin?” Arrœk asks softly, crouching down in front of Merlin.

Merlin nods slowly, not looking up, “Yes.” Arrœk uses a finger to lift his chin and then slaps him hard across the face, sending Merlin to the floor, his head ringing with the blow and blood dripping from a split lip.

Arrœk grabs him by the hair, hauling him up. “I owe you that much, little whore. Now tell me, why were you on that tower?” Merlin stares at him and keeps quiet. Arrœk shakes his fist, jerking Merlin’s head. “I’ll ask again, why were you on that tower?” Merlin just licks the blood off of his lip and remains silent.

“He shouted something,” one of Arrœk’s men says.

“What was it?” he demands. The men argue over what Merlin had said, stumbling over the words, tongue thick in their mouths. “Send for one of the slaves,” Arrœk roars out and they scramble to do just that.

It’s grim irony that the woman they bring forward is the one who saved him from detection before. They tell the woman haltingly what they heard. “Tell the Queen, tell Morgana that Kilgharrah’s other pupil has done her bidding,” the woman says calmly.

Arrœk smirks and sends the woman back to the slave pens. “This will be easier on you if you just tell me. If you cooperate, I can grant you a quick, clean death, Merlin. If you speak,” Arrœk whispers to Merlin.

Merlin can’t stop it as a laugh bubbles up inside his chest, escaping his throat. “My lord, I’d rather take the other choice,” Merlin says easily.

“Then you will have it. Let your Queen see how I treat her spies,” Arrœk says. He throws Merlin to two of his men who grab him by his arms, forcing him to his knees, head bowed. There’s a moment of quiet and then the back of Merlin’s shirt is ripped open to the cool air. Merlin shivers slightly, realizing just what is about to happen.

“Morgana de la Pendragon, see what happens to your spies,” Arrœk yells out. Merlin holds his breath as the sound of a dagger being drawn reaches his ears. Merlin struggles, trying to pull free but the Picts hold his arms securely as Arrœk begins to cut into his back, slowly skinning Merlin alive.

Merlin screams, he knows he does as Arrœk slowly peels his skin from his back, but then his vision his hazing over with gold and though his body still screams, his mind has gone elsewhere. Merlin isn’t sure how much time passes in this way.

Then suddenly, Arrœk stops and Merlin is back in his own body, shivering in shock, his back on fire and tears running down his face. He can feel blood running down his sides, soaking into his clothing, but all of it is forgotten at the voice ringing out, “Arrœk, I challenge you to an Anwig!”

Merlin is let go and he falls to the ground limp. Turning his head, Merlin can just see Arthur, his hair shining golden in the torchlight. His sword is unsheathed and his eyes blaze in rage. “No,” Merlin croaks out, hand inching along trying in vain to tell Arthur to leave, to not sacrifice himself for Merlin.

Merlin is ignored except for a brief flick of Arthur’s eyes towards him. “Very well, Arthur. Let us Anwig and let your Queen and all of the five kingdoms see as I defeat her champion,” Arrœk says with glee.

Arthur just stands there, composed in his travel stained clothing. Underneath his tunic, Merlin can see his chainmail peeking out, glinting in the light. The two are circled until there is a wall of Picts around them. Merlin is hauled to his knees with a gasp and now he can see everything.

Merlin can’t keep up, no matter how he tries. They are too fast and he is still befuddled from whatever his magic had done to allow him to endure the pain. All he can see is swords flashing in the light, metal striking metal. There are yells all around them, thousands of Picts watching, yelling, and beating their spears on shields.

For a second, Arthur staggers and Merlin holds his breath, waiting to see what happens as Arrœk attack. The knight dodges, barely avoiding the blow. Coming out of a roll, he attacks again and Merlin breaths again. There is the screech of metal on metal and then as cry goes up. Arrœk’s blood falls to the ground. The Anwig is done, Arthur has won.

In the silence, Arthur sheaths his sword, waiting to see how this will play out. Arrœk laughs, long and hard. “For that, I will let you live long enough to see him die,” Arrœk says, advancing again.

Merlin sees the moment Arthur’s shoulders slump in despair. He turns to look at where Merlin is knelt on the ground. Their eyes meet and Merlin can see clearly what he is thinking as if the knight has spoken directly into his mind. Merlin just smiles and nods his head.

Unsheathing his sword again, Arthur reaches down and pulls out his boot dagger, hefting the blade in his hand. Turning, Arthur cocks his arm back, sword rising to his own throat: the last act of a protector for their ward when all is lost.

“Do it,” Merlin whispers.

Arthur lifts his arm up and freezes, looking over Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin looks to and his heart beats loudly in his chest. The portcullis is lowering and Merlin realizing what is about to happen, reaches for the reserves of power he has left and shoves, sending the Picts around him and Arthur flying to the ground.

Arthur is on him before he can even start to fall, grabbing his arm and pulling Merlin along. Merlin gasps in pain, but keeps going. The draw bridge comes down and they race towards it. Above them, fire rains down on the Picts following and Merlin looks up to see a group of people standing on the bridge, fire raining from their hands.

Two horsemen race out across the draw bridge. They draw up next to Merlin and Arthur. Merlin is hauled up without ceremony and thrown across the saddle, Arthur pulling himself up behind the other man. They ride back across the draw bridge, the sorcerers following and the drawbridge raising.

The horses draw up in the courtyard and people swarm around them. Merlin is gently pulled from the saddle and lowered to the ground. “Merlin!” someone yells out, frantic and Merlin looks up to see Gwen kneeling in front of him.

“Gwen?” Merlin asks, confused as to why his childhood friend is here. He would have said more, but his visions starts to go dark around the edges, his ears ringing hollowly. Merlin collapses to the ground, out cold.

~*~

Merlin comes to a few minutes later and can hear voices all around him. He looks up to see Gwen’s worried face, a man next to her in the black tunic of the Brotherhood. “Oh Merlin,” Gwen says softly, touching his cheek gently.

“Make way for the physician!” Someone yells out and suddenly Gaius is there, face grave as he looks Merlin over.

“Help me get him to my chamber,” Gaius says. There are hands under Merlin’s arms as they haul him to his feet. Arthur is on his right and the man that had been next to Gwen is on his left.

In Gaius’s rooms, they lower him to his stomach on a table and Gaius gets to work quickly cleaning the flesh of his back. Merlin feels cold and sick as he feels the stripped flesh being moved but he clamps his jaws together and grits through it. Gaius takes up a thread and needle and starts to sew.

“It’s not as bad as it could have been,” Gaius says and Merlin can only nod to the physician’s words. Merlin can hear other voices but they all hush as the doors open. Merlin can see Gwen curtsy out of the corner of his eye and he turns his head to see Morgana standing in the doorway flanked by her knight protector.

“Merlin nó Emrys,” she says simply.

“I would bow my lady, but I can’t at the moment,” Merlin whispers, voice hoarse and throat dry.

“Understandable. You say you have a message for me?” Morgana asks, coming forward as the door is shut behind her.

Merlin takes a breath and says evenly, “An army of over seven thousand is going to be attacking Arrœk’s rearguard tomorrow at dawn.”

“Seven thousand Hibernians?” someone asks and it takes Merlin a second to realize that there is someone else with Morgana. Persant de Dieu stands next to the Queen.

“No, they are only half. The other half belong to Valiant d’Alene,” Merlin says, wincing as Gaius pulls another stich closed.

“D’Alene!” Persant says, “And what idiot came up with that idea?”

“I did,” Merlin says simply, “And put into action by your father, the royal commander.”

“My father is with them?’ he asks, coming forward.

Merlin nods. “He came with us with half of his men and left Cenred to guard the eastern pass with Petit and the navy,” Merlin says.

“Why would D’Alene aid us?” Morgana asks.

Merlin winces again, “Because, he’s dead no matter what and I gave him the chance for a hero’s death.”

“You are so sure of him?” Persant asks.

“Yes, my lord. He wants revenge. He cares not for your favor, my lady. He wants only to beat Nimueh at her own game,” Merlin says.

“Very well. My lord, see to the troops and inform them of the plan. We attack at dawn. It is time we made our stand and showed these savages just who they are trying to defeat,” Morgana says with a gleam in her eyes.

Before he can say anything, someone hammers on the door. It opens to admit a red faced soldier. “Your highness, they’re tearing the tower down and using the timber to cross the moat,” he says with a sketchy bow.

“It seems your little stunt has angered him,” Persant says with a look at Merlin.

“We need to keep his eyes on us until dawn or else the plan will fall apart. Tell your men to let him get as close as we can before you drive him back. But above all else, keep his eyes on us,” Morgana orders.

“Of course, my Queen,” Persant says, bowing. He leaves quickly and the room is silent except for Merlin’s harsh breathing. With one last stitch, Gaius steps away from the table.

“There you are, my boy. I’ll bandage it up and give you something for the pain and then you should be fine,” Gaius says. True to his words, Merlin is bandaged and doused with a painkiller that works quickly. “I have others I must see to, but you are free to stay here for as long as you need.”

“I too must go. You did well, Merlin. Thank you,” Morgana says. Bowing his head, Merlin watched the two leave and the door shut.

“How are you feeling?” Gwen asks coming up to look at him where he had sat up.

“I’m all right, Gwen,” Merlin says. “What are you doing here?”

Gwen colors and looks at the other knight in the room. The man comes forward with a smile. “I’m Lancelot du Lac, Gwen’s protector,” he says.

Merlin looks between the two seeing the besotted look they bother wear. “Gwen?” Merlin asks, arching a brow. Gwen blushes and nods. “When?”

“It was soon after you had disappeared. Lancelot had come back to his family for a visit and we met and it just sort of happened. He is one of the knights that Morgana has been using to carry messages,” Gwen explains.

“Congratulations,” Merlin says with a grin.

“Come on, you can come to our rooms. You could use some rest after this,” Gwen says. Between Arthur and Lancelot, they keep Merlin from falling over as they traverse through stone corridors.

Merlin frowns and stops them just as they enter the courtyard. “Arthur, where’s Aithusa?”

“He was gone when I left. I haven’t seen him since,” Arthur says. As if his name is a beacon, there’s a screech overhead and a flash of white descends down on them. There are yells, soldiers taking aim at the little dragon.

“No!” Merlin yells, throwing his hands out to stop them.

Something clicks inside him and the world just stops for a split second. Merlin looks around, dazed before Aithusa comes barreling into his arms. The jolt of the impact knocks him over and the world is moving again.

From his place on the ground, Merlin holds the little dragon as it cries piteously, Aithusa rubbing his head on Merlin’s chest. “Shh, shh, I’m all right. I’m all right,” Merlin whispers to the dragon.

A shout goes up around them as men cry out “Dawn” to let everyone know. The dawn has come at last and their final stand is here. “We need to get somewhere high,” Merlin says. The other’s nod and they help Merlin over to the stairs.

~*~

They keep to the walls of the stairwell as soldiers come running up and down them in a rush to be ready. Eventually though, the four of them make it to the battlements on the eastern wall where they could see the battle.

Merlin shivers in the cool air of dawn and stares out over a sea of Picts. He still can’t believe he traversed that distance. It feels like a dream or nightmare. The Picts rush the wall still, breaking against the wall like a wave against the rocks only to be driven back by the archers.

“How much longer until attack?” Merlin hears Gwen ask.

“There’s no hope of not being seen by the Picts once they reach flat ground, but it should still be enough for them to get close. Arrœk will attack them and then Morgana will attack from behind. At most an hour from now,” Lancelot says.

“Merlin,” someone calls from behind them.

Turning, Merlin can only stare at the image of Dame Fors in front of him. There are four others behind her, two men and two women. The other heads of the Moonlight Court branches. Merlin had completely forgotten about their involvement.

“Dame Fors,” he says back softly, bowing his head.

“Will you be joining us in this battle?” Dinas Seneschal, head of the Wind Court, asks.

Merlin shakes his head. “I don’t know battle magic and my reserves are already low,” Merlin says softly.

Aithusa chirps at him, lifting his head up to look at the new arrivals. There’s a collective gasp as they stare at the little dragon. “It seems much more has happened to you then you first let on, warlock,” Dame Fors says with an arched brow.

Merlin flushes a little and nods. “Be safe, young warlock. I wish to have a nice long chat once this is over,” Dame Fors says. She nods to Arthur and then Gwen and Lancelot before she and the other heads head further down the wall.

“We should get off the wall,” Arthur says softly.

Merlin shakes his head, “No, history is being made below and with it change. They say a warlock is a sign of change, so I will remain here to see it through.”

“You’re an idiot, you know that right?” Arthur says with a glare at Merlin.

Merlin just smiles and nods. Sighing, Arthur turns back to view the soon to be battle field. They wait there, breaths steaming in the cool air and watch the horizon, searching for the Hibernians and Alban army.

“Look!” Gwen cries and they can see it: a line of silver advancing slowly from behind the Pictish army. “They made it.”

Although they had stopped any Pictish scouting parties from giving them away, they can’t hide form from Arrœk’s army forever. The rear scouts shout a warning to their comrades and as one, the sea of bodies seems to shift. In the center of it all, Arrœk turns his mount and surveys the oncoming army.

They wait with baited breath, watching as the distance between them closes. The two armies clash like two living things, the roars and clang of metal just reaching their position on the wall. Although the forces are disorganized, there are so many of them it doesn’t matter.

And even though there attention is drawn, Arrœk isn’t stupid. He yells out orders, leaving enough men to keep their forces penned in the fortress. The first wave of Picts finish breaking against the army and the next comes howling at them.

But although they are undisciplined and fierce, they cannot stand up to the skill of D’Alene’s men as they steadily march forward, swords flashing bloody red in the light of the slowly rising sun. Gwen gasps and Merlin looks to see where she is looking. From the south comes Driant’s army.

They stream over the hills, their war chants heard even over the Pictish roaring. They descend on Arrœk’s unsuspecting right flank, tearing a bloody swath through the enemy. And in the middle of it all, Merlin can see Driant and the Twins.

Merlin turns back towards the Alban forces in time to see them hunker down behind their shields, holding their line despite the overwhelming numbers against them. They open up and Merlin can only stare as from between the two sides, D’Alene’s Calvary comes charging forward. Decked out in armor, even the horses; they make a wedge, forcing their way through the Pictish ranks straight for the center, for Arrœk.

There’s a flash of light as the forces keeping them penned race towards their fellow warriors to fight against D’Alene’s forces. Merlin hears the portcullis rise and the draw bridge lower and the soldier that had been pinned in the fortress come streaming out to fall upon the Picts from behind.

Penned in from three sides, the Picts fight against their enemies and for a second, it seems they are about to over run them. And then the first ball of fire rains down on the Picts and Merlin looks to see the Court heads spaced out along the wall.

The Picts see the sorcerers and Merlin can see the fear in their eyes, even from here. They are a superstitious people and the sight of magic is something that goes against their beliefs. As the Picts begin to break ranks, Arrœk roars his fury and turns his mount, heading straight for where Valiant is, the man heading straight for Arrœk.

They clash together like two forces of nature. Around them, a bubble has formed as they fight. Merlin is too far away to see clearly, but he can see enough to know they are nearly evenly matched. But eventually, one has to go down.

Valiant gives the final blow and Merlin watches as Arrœk falls down to one knee. Valiant brings his sword down, finding a gap in Arrœk’s armor and drives it home. Arrœk dies there on the battlefield, eyes staring straight up at the sky as the sun slowly rose higher.

And then Valiant is there next to him, falling to his knees as he succumbs to his wounds. He had turned his back on his country on the five nations, betraying them and yet he had died a hero’s death, saving the one thing he had betrayed. It seems fitting.

~*~

After that, it is almost too easy. With their leader down, the lines Merlin had traveled so easily tear and the Pictish army breaks apart, clans and tribes, even steadings, leaving, running back for their mountains.

The four of them had started to descend the stairs to go back down to the courtyard. They hear screams just as they descend to the floor just above the courtyard. Looking down, Merlin pales. A group of Picts had somehow gotten into the fortress in a desperate attempt to inflict damage.

Merlin yells out and he feels his magic swell, feels magic from around him, pressing down, feeling the Balance with him. He isn’t sure what he does, but the Picts are sent flying back out through the main gate, the soldiers that had been running to help falling on them.

There is deathly quiet as everyone stares at him. Merlin is too busy trying to keep his shaking knees from giving out to notice it. He does notice when the word “Dragonlord” is whispered. Looking up, Merlin looks at where Aithusa is resting on his shoulder, blue eyes shining bright with magic.

“Thank you,” Merlin says softly to the dragon, petting the dragon. Aithusa just chirps and them Merlin is letting Arthur lower him to the ground so that he doesn’t fall over.

~*~

The rest of the day is spent cleaning up. Half of the army is sent after the fleeing Picts, to make sure they don’t decide to pillage and more villages or towns on the way back to their mountains. Workers go amongst the fallen, searching for any wounded still alive, giving out water, killing any Picts still alive.

It’s a messy job, but it needs to be done. Gaius and his staff are kept busy seeing to all the wounded. Merlin tries to go out to the battle field and help, but between Gwen and Arthur, they herd him to a bed and he hadn’t realized he was so tired until they got him under a blanket.

Merlin wakes up to darkness, torches blazing throughout the fortress. Getting up with a wince, body stiff, Merlin makes it out of the room. Aithusa flies behind him, chirping softly. Only Gwen is in the other room and she smiles when she see his come out of the bedroom.

“You look better,” she says.

“Thanks,” Merlin croaks. He nods in thanks when she hands him a goblet of water, drinking it down quickly. Finished, they both leave to search out their knight protectors to help with whatever needs to be done.

It takes days for everything to be seen to. Blame and punishment are given out and though it makes Merlin uneasy, he is willing to be an advisor to Morgana when it comes to the captured Picts. For the most part though, plans are made to see to the restoration of all the villages and towns destroyed by the Picts.

There is also a royal wedding to be planned. Morgana and Driant meet on the draw bridge and he kisses her with the shouts of approval from both armies. Merlin stands with Arthur as they watch and is glad that some good could come from this.

With the army being broken up, things slowly return to some normalcy. Merlin spends some time in the hospital wards with Gaius and the other healers, offering his magic to help where ever he can. Arthur always comes for him when the sun starts to goes down below the horizon; sometimes having to literally drag Merlin out, the warlock is so tired.

Arthur doesn’t say anything, but he knows the knight understands. They haven’t talked about what it is between them, not having the time with everything happening. Maybe soon, they will, but for now, Merlin is content with not saying anything.

~*~

It is a week after that final battle that one of Morgana’s pages comes for Merlin in the hospital ward. Frowning as the boy gives Morgana’s summons, Merlin follows him back into the main part of the fortress. Morgana meets him in one of the corridors, Arthur trailing behind her.

They can see the Courtyard down below. As they watch, the gates open and Duc Mordred de Porte rides through, flanked by his own soldiers and what appears to be a few L’Isle kinsmen. Merlin can only stare as he finally see who they have riding between them.

Nimueh de l’Isle is calm as she dismounts. She doesn’t even glance there way as guards lead her from the courtyard. Merlin feels numb, his throat working but no sound coming out. “I’m sorry, Merlin,” Morgana says softly. “If I could do the trial without you, I would.”

Finally, Merlin gets his tongue to work. “I know my lady,” he whispers back. Arthur just stands behind him, a hand on his shoulder.

~*~

The trial is held in the makeshift throne room that Morgana has had made. The entire council is there, including the other kings who had fought in the battle. Even Cenred is there, stripped of his titles as he is. He has as much stake in Nimueh’s conviction as anyone else.

Merlin is brought to the room before Nimueh and is placed in a small notch, hidden away from sight until he is needed. Merlin hears the door open and the tramp of soldier’s boots as they escort Nimueh into the room.

“Lady Nimueh de l’Isle, you stand before us accused of treason. How do you plead?” Morgana asks, voice cool and even. Merlin can just see her profile from his hiding place and her face is expressionless as she stares at the sorceress.

“Your majesty, I have always served Camelot. Duc de Porte makes groundless accusations. Where was he during this battle when every man was needed? Yes, I refute this accusation and demand he show his proof if he wishes to charge me.”

“You are also charged with conspiring with Selises Arrœk of the Picts,” Morgana says.

Nimueh is silent for a long moment, taken by surprise. Mordred had kept her in the dark about everything that had happened. He had found the chink in her armor. Finally, Nimueh speaks. “Does the Duc have proof? There is nothing that the dead can say against me, so let him come forth with his proof.”

“It is not the Duc who makes such a claim,” Morgana says simply.

“Then by my right, I wish to face my accuser,” Nimueh says simply.

Merlin knows his cue even before Morgana waves her hand to bring him forward. Squaring his shoulder, Merlin steps forward from his hiding place to stare down at Nimueh, “I am your accuser.” Merlin can feel Arthur close by, can feel his gaze on him and he takes strength from it.

Merlin starts when Arthur comes beside him, hand out. Looking down, Merlin takes the collar of woven wire and Merlin feels something inside him let loose, a knot coming undone that he hadn’t noticed before. Turning, Merlin grips it in his hand hard and then flings it to the ground at Nimueh’s feet. “That is yours, my lady,” Merlin hisses.

Nimueh is pale as she stares up at Merlin. She takes a breath and Merlin can see her mind working, looking for a way out of this. And then she laughs softly. “That old dragon plays an incredible endgame, even after his death. Persant knew of the invasion. He was ready. Your doing?” Nimueh asks, looking at Merlin.

Merlin nods. “I saw the letter in your own handwriting to Arrœk,” Merlin says softly. “You should have killed me when you had the chance.”

“I had thought leaving you your knight would be a bit much, but sentiment and all that,” Nimueh says simply.

“Do you refute the charges?” Morgana asks, breaking off Nimueh’s speech.

“You have proof, I assume?” Nimueh asks. Morgana nods but doesn’t say what the proof is. Nimueh nods, “I thought as much. I have no more to say.”

Morgana nods coldly. “You execution will be at dawn.” No one speaks against the verdict. Nimueh is escorted back out of the room. The moment the door closes, Merlin sags, heart still beating in his throat.

“It’s over Merlin, it’s over,” Arthur says, holding the warlock up.

“I know,” Merlin says simply.

~*~

Merlin spends the rest of the day with the healers, seeing to those wounded in the battle. Although it didn’t keep his mind from swirling with emotions, it helped keep his hands busy and that was all he could hope to do. Arthur leaves him alone for the most part, only coming to collect him as the sun sinks.

The messenger comes for Merlin in the late hours of the night. Merlin is still awake, unable to find comfort in sleep. He bears Nimueh’s last request, to speak with Merlin. Merlin hesitates, wondering if he should or not.

Finally, Merlin nods and pulling on a warm cloak, Merlin follows the man down into the lower levels of the fortress. Nimueh has been given a small room to herself, a final kindness for the woman who will die in the morning.

Merlin can see the spells written into the walls. No magic can be used in the room. There is no way Nimueh can escape. Nimueh is waiting in a chair, watching him as he enters, shutting the door behind him.

“I didn’t think you would come,” she admits.

“What do you want?” Merlin asks, trying to keep his face expressionless.

“To see you one last time before I die,” Nimueh says with a small smile.

“I doubt that,” Merlin says.

“Do you hate me so much?” Nimueh asks softly.

“Yes,” Merlin hisses, letting some of his anger show through.

“It was a long shot, but I had hoped you wouldn’t. But what else can I do but play the hand I’ve been given. Maybe it would have been different if I had gotten to you before Kilgharrah. Who’s to say,” Nimueh says softly. “I underestimated you.”

“What did Arrœk promise you?” Merlin asks.

Nimueh smiles, “Half an empire.”

“Why?” Merlin asks, the confusion evident in his voice. That question has nagged at the back of his mind this whole terrible journey.

“Because I could,” she says simply.

Merlin shudders at her words. “You should go now,” Nimueh says simply and Merlin staggers away and to the door, knocking on it and waiting for the guards to let him out.

“Are you all right?” one of them asks, taking in Merlin’s stricken expression. Merlin simply nods and walks away, his emotions and thought tied up into even bigger knots than they had been before Nimueh had asked for his presence.

~*~

Merlin spends the night atop the battlements, staring out across the vast landscape spread out around the fortress. Arthur finds him there a few hours before dawn. He doesn’t say anything, but Merlin can feel his gaze boring into Merlin’s back.

“You went to see her,” Arthur says. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin says softly. “Validation, closure, something…anything...”

“Did you find it?” Arthur asks, coming to stand next to him. Ahead to the east, the sky is already starting to lighten.

“I don’t know,” Merlin says softly, looking at the knight. Arthur just sighs and pulls him into a hug, holding the trembling warlock.

They stand there for a while and the sky lightens around them. Soon, it will be over. Except that the sound of running feet and clanking armor comes to them up on the wall. Frowning, Arthur looks around and spots one of the sentries on the wall. “What is it?” he asks the man.

“They were supposed to execute Lady Nimueh at dawn. They found the room empty and the two guards dead in front of the door. They also found the gatekeeper on the southern gate dead as well,” he says and runs off to go talk with someone else.

Merlin can’t help the soft noise that comes out of his throat or the blood draining from his face. Pressing back against the wall, Merlin slides down it and buries his face in his arms.

~*~

Merlin is brought before Morgana for questioning. Morgana is questioning everyone, not just Merlin, but he already knows why she has called him. Merlin stands before her throne feeling wearier than ever.

“She sent for you last night,” Morgana says. “And you went. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin says. “Maybe I owed her that much. She spared my life once. Though I did not. That was all I owed her.”

“Is that all?” Morgana asks.

“That is all. Her execution rested on my word. If I had wanted to save her, all I would have needed to do was remain silent,” Merlin says.

“I’m sorry Merlin. You must understand, with Nimueh still out there, my throne and kingdom, every kingdom, will never be truly safe,” Morgana says softly.

“I know,” Merlin says. Morgana dismisses him and Merlin leaves.

~*~

The world goes on and time passes. Summer deepens and is soon starting to shift into autumn when they leave Fæstenn finally. Soon, the harvest will be ready to bring in and life will continue. The Hibernians ride with them, waiting for the wedding that will open up the straights for them.

Eventually though, they come to Camelot, cresting the hill to see the city sprawled across the land, the castle gleaming white in the sunshine. Home. They ride in procession through Camelot, the people shouting and cheering their arrival.

Merlin remembers a similar procession, so long ago. They had been alive then, Kilgharrah and Freya. He remembers it was the night she had her virgin price auctioned off. God, he misses them. Arthur doesn’t say anything as tears slide down his face. He’s not sure if they’re from the happiness of everything being over or from the memory of a childhood long gone.

With war and sickness to ravish the ranks of Camelot, there is room for everyone. Merlin, no longer with a home, is given room in the castle. He is still needed to translate.

Merlin wants to cry when he finds Alice waiting for him in his room. He had already seen Gaius, but Alice was his first true teacher, his confidant, and friend. Pulling her close, he hugs her, feeling tears in his eyes. Hearing a cough, Merlin looks up at Juliana, the Queen’s poet. Smiling at the woman, he goes and hugs her as well. He is finally home.

~*~

The wedding is a long drawn out affair. After so much death and sorrow, it is understandable that the people would want something happy to celebrate. It last three days, though the actual wedding barely takes an hour to complete so that Morgana and Driant are wed finally.

Merlin enjoys every minute of it. He has been through so much, but with each laugh and each friend reunited with him, he feels a little lighter. Arthur enjoys it right along with him. He even introduces Merlin to some of his knight friends, each of them bigger than the last and Merlin can only stare in awe of the bear-like man that is Percival.

But still, no matter how much fun he has and how many new people he meets, there is still one person missing. His heart squeezes a little every time he thinks of Gwaine stuck on that island. He would have loved this wedding. He would have been drunk off his ass after the first hour of celebrating.

Still, Merlin has already vowed to not stop until he finds a way to free his friend. Even if he has to go against the Old Religion itself, he won’t stop until he finds the key to Gwaine’s freedom. Arthur looks at him and knows Merlin’s resolve. He’s already pledged to help Merlin no matter what, so there is nothing left to say on the matter.

It is the week after Morgana’s wedding when Merlin is summoned to the Queen’s drawing room. When he enters, he sees an older man seated on a chair, a couple of scroll set off to the side. “Ah, Merlin, there you are. You remember Geoffrey de Monmouth, the royal archivist?” Merlin could recall seeing him a few times. He nodded. “He has some business with you.” Nodding to the man, Morgana sits down opposite of Merlin.

Geoffrey puts his glasses on and pulls one of the scrolls closer, unfurling it with ease of much practice. “Ah…in the matter of Kilgharrah’s estates…the house in the city with everything inside it was purchased by the royal household to be resold at a later date. It has yet to be sold as of this current date. I can start the proceedings for you to reclaim it or you may of course sell it and keep the money, it is your choice,” Geoffrey says.

“What?” Merlin asks, bewildered.

“Well, it says here, on Kilgharrah’s will, that should anything happen to him, you and one other…um a Freya nó Emrys, deceased, shall be named his heir. And since you have been cleared of all charges, the seizure of said property is now unlawful and must be returned,” Geoffrey explains.

“I…,”Merlin pauses and swallows. “I don’t want the house. Please sell it, except for the library. Anything in there, I will keep,” Merlin says remembering the book on dragons and Dragonlords.

“Of course. Now there is still the matter of…,” Geoffrey sets the first scroll down and pulls the other one forward, “…the matter of the Emrys estates.”

Merlin just stares at him, unable to wrap his mind around the words. “What Geoffrey is trying to say is that you have inherited the title and estates of the Comte de Emrys,” Morgana says with a smile.

“You’re joking,” Merlin whispers.

“Her highness does not joke,” Geoffrey says with a sniff. “The Emrys title is an old title that had been held by the kingdom for a couple of generations. Her majesty, the late queen, Ygraine de la Pendragon, passed them on to Kilgharrah for services rendered. After her death, they were stripped from Kilgharrah for reasons kept confidant and that until such a time that he was pardoned or his death, they would remain with the kingdom. However, he willed them to his heir which as of now is you.”

“I…I’ll accept them,” Merlin says softly, feeling tears in his eyes. Even now, Kilgharrah is still looking out for him. It would take a while for everything to go through, but for all sakes and purposes, Merlin is a land holder.

Arthur takes one look at him and asks, “What’s wrong?”

“I…I’m a peer of the realm,” Merlin says, still dazed.

~*~

The house where Merlin grew up is sold and though it grieves him to never step foot in there again, he knows it is for the good. He could never live where the two people he loved had died. A small portion of the money is spent for preparations to the Emrys estates.

Two weeks after being landed, the set off at a slow pace. There is a small train of pack animals behind them, weighted down with the books and such things from the library and throughout the house that Merlin wished to keep. With a small group of guards, courtesy of Morgana, they make their slow journey north.

The Emrys estates aren’t big, but they’re surrounded by forests. It seems fitting to Merlin. It is a little over run, but the people there are friendly. They stare at Merlin with some sort of awe and it isn’t until later that he finds out that most of the staff practice the Old Religion and know just who he is.

~*~

They settle in and the days pass by in peace. Merlin spends his time reading up on the books he had brought with them and those already in the huge library. He helps with cleaning the estates up and with the garden. Often, he takes walks through the forest, just absorbing everything around him.

Aithusa takes to everything like a fish to water. He lets the servants brave enough to get close pet and coddle him, eating treats from their hands. He flies everywhere, but still comes back with each night. He has grown since he first broke through his shell. His wings are larger and his length longer. He’s put on more muscle mass. Soon, he will be too big for Merlin to carry around with ease.

It takes some getting used to and since Merlin has never run an estate, he gets as much help from the head woman. She takes to Merlin like a mother, keeping him fed and answering any questions he might have. And though he’s still not used to it, he can at least act like a peer.

~*~

Merlin wakes with a start. He can feel Arthur pressed up behind him and knows that the knight is awake as well. There’s another knock at the door. “What?” Merlin calls out.

“Sir, you have a visitor,” one of the servants says through the door, their voice muffled.

“I’m coming,” Merlin says and hears their footsteps walking away. Merlin groans, “I was hoping to get to sleep in today,” Merlin mutters, shoving his face back into his pillow.

“Get up, idiot,” Arthur says, shoving Merlin until he has to get up or fall off of the bed. Glaring at his lover, Merlin huffs and stalks over to the wardrobe, hissing at the cool floors on his bare feet. Aithusa ignores them and curls deeper into the warm blankets on the bed.

Merlin is dressed and more away by the time he comes down the stairs, Arthur behind him. Merlin isn’t sure who to expect, but he is surprised when he enters the sitting room to see Plaine de Bawes waiting for him.

Kilgharrah’s old friend looks like he’s aged a few years, but he still grins at Merlin. He comes forward to grasp Merlin by the shoulders, looking him over. “You look well, warlock,” he says softly.

“It’s good to see you,” Merlin says.

“I was in Acestir when I heard the news. It pains me to see my friend go. He was good to all of us,” Plaine says.

Merlin swallows and nods, feeling a lump in his throat at the reminder of Kilgharrah. “He was that. Come, you must be tired after your journey. I’ll have the servants bring your things to your room while we talk over breakfast,” Merlin says.

~*~

It isn’t until dinner that night that Plaine tells the real reason for his coming. They sit at the small informal dining table having finished the main course and are nibbling on sweetmeats and cheese, their goblets never dry.

“Why are you here?” Merlin asks finally. “I mean I am glad you have come to visit, but it is a bit of a journey to get out here.”

“Of course, though it is an odd tale to tell. I was staying with a friend of mine in Mercia. We had bedded down for the night when I felt a draft through my room. I lit a candle to find I had a guest. She never told me her name, just that she asked that I deliver a package to you. Said that it was important. Then she was gone, as if it had been a dream except the package was still on my bed,” Plaine says.

“Did you know who it was?” Merlin asks softly, though he can already guess.

“No. At first, I thought her a serving girl, with her garb, but her manners and speech were too well bred to be anything but of noble birth. Her hair was dark and her eyes were this bright blue that seemed to glow. Do you know who she is?” he asks Merlin.

Merlin nods. “Nimueh,” he says softly. “You said there was a package?”

Plaine nods and lifts something off of the ground, holding it out to Merlin. “I never opened it,” he assures Merlin whose hands are shaking as he takes it.

Setting it down on his lap, Merlin swallows before pulling on the ties around the clothe covering. As the strings unfold, his cloak spills forth in its dark fold. He had completely forgotten about it in all that had happened. He’d been wearing it that night, the night she betrayed him.

“What does it mean?” Arthur asks and Merlin can hear the anger in his words.

Merlin looks up at him, “She’s challenging me to come and find her.”

“Will you?” Plaine asks and Merlin looks at him.

Merlin takes a breath and lets it out. “No. I have more important things to do then play her games. Some needs me right now and I will not let her choose my path,” Merlin says simply.

“She won’t take kindly to that. She’ll come after you,” Arthur says.

“Let her come then. I won’t let her hurt me again,” Merlin says with conviction, clenching his fists in the cloak. He is a warlock and a Dragonlord. Let her try.

**End.**


	11. Character List and Word Guide

**Characters for Love as Thou Wilt**

• Emrys Household

o Kilgharrah nó Emrys —Noble.  
o Freya nó Emrys — Kilgharrah’s pupil.  
o Merlin nó Emrys — Kilgharrah’s pupil; drycræft.  
o Will — Kilgharrah’s man.  
o Arthur du Bois — Noble; Round Table Brotherhood (knight); protector of Merlin.

• Royal Family- Pendragon

o Uther de la Pendragon — King of Camelot.  
o Ygraine de la Pendragon — Queen of Camelot (deceased).  
o Arthur de la Pendragon — Son of Uther and Ygraine; Prince; reportedly died at birth with his mother/actually sent to the Round Table Brotherhood to protect him from a plot to kill him (deceased).  
o Morgana de la Pendragon — Illegitimate child of Uther and Vivienne who is married to Gorlois; Princess; next in line for the Pendragon throne.  
o Kay l’Ector — Cousin of Uther de la Pendragon by marriage and to Ygraine, Tristan, and Agravaine by blood; Duc l’Ector (Tintagel).  
o Tamara l’Ector — Daughter of Kay l’Ector.

• Le Fey Household

o Gorlois le Fey — Noble; friend of Uther (deceased).  
o Vivienne le Fey — Noble; wife of Gorlois; had an affair with Uther (deceased).

• Royal Family- Escetia

o Cenred de la Escetia — King of Escetia.  
o Morgause le Fey de la Escetia — Half-sister to Morgana; wife of Cenred; Queen of Escetia.  
o Liana de la Escetia — late queen; Cenred’s first wife; died giving birth to Dillon (deceased).  
o Dillon de la Escetia — Son of Liana and Cenred; Prince; Duc d’Apres (Escetia).  
o Dalia de la Escetia — Daughter of Morgause and Cenred; Princess.

• Royal Family- Bois (Ygraine’s family)- Tintagel

o Tristan de la Bois — Ygraine’s brother; first born son of the Bois royal family; King of Tintagel.  
o Agravaine de la Bois — Ygraine’s brother; second son of the Bois royal family.  
o Maria Tinatgel de la Bois — Wife of Agravaine.  
o Ariel de la Tintagel-Bois nó Kenshire — Daughter of Agravaine and Maria; married to Galahad; friend of Morgana.  
o Elizabeth de la Tinatgel-Bois nó Kenshire — Daughter of Agravaine and Maria; married to Gerent; friend of Morgana.  
o Gerent nó Kenshire — Noble; husband of Elizabeth; cousin to Ariel’s husband, Galahad nó Kenshire.  
o Galahad nó Kenshire — Noble; cousin to Gerent; married to Ariel.

• Royal Family- Mercia

o Bayard de la Mercia — King of Mercia; friends with Uther.  
o Bedwyr de la Mercia — Prince; son of Bayard and Trishana.

• Royal Family- Acestir

o Godwyn de la Acestir — King of Acestir; friend of Uther.  
o Azreal de la Acestir — Brother to Godwyn; Elena’s uncle.

• Nobles

o Valiant d’Alene — Son of Cador; Duc d’Alene (Camelot).  
o Cador d’Alene — Duc d’Alene (Camelot).  
o Marquise Sharia Gairn — Noble; member of Camelot court.  
o Geoffrey de Monmouth — Noble; royal archivist.  
o Lucan Maris — Noble; member of Kay’s entourage.  
o Breunor d’Cote — Noble; member of the royal court.  
o Alice Verdant-Beau — Wife of Gaius Beau; former Courtesan of Fire Court; tutor to Merlin and Freya.  
o Gaius Beau — Husband to Alice Verdant-Beau; Royal Physician to the Pendragon line.  
o Mithian de Caernarvon — Lady of Caernarvon (Camelot)  
o Mordred de Porte — Duc de Porte (Camelot)  
o Nimueh de l’Isle — Noble; drycræft (Camelot).  
o Melias, Aglain, Edwin, Myror, Tauren — Members of de l’Isle family; Nimueh’s kin (Camelot).  
o Pellinore de Dieu — Noble; Comte de Dieu (Camelot); Royal Commander.  
o Persant de Dieu — Noble; first son of Pellinore.  
o Gareth de Highpass — Noble; Comte de Highpass (Escetia).  
o Uriens de Isidore — Noble; Comte de Isidore (Camelot) cousin to Cenred.  
o Morganor l’Galdren — Noble; father of Balin and Balan; Duc l’Galdren (Acestir).

• Moonlight Court (Mona Leoht Geard)- Fire (Fry) Court (Camelot), Water (Wæter) Court (Tintagel), Wind (Windan) Court (Acestir), Earth (Molde) Court (Escetia), Lightning (Ligetræsc) Court (Mercia)

o Hunith Draca — Member of the Molde (Earth) Geard; mother of Merlin; married to Balinor Draca.  
o Alexandra Fors — Dame; Head of Fire Court.  
o Damas Cœur — Second of Fire Court.  
o Guinevere (Gwen) Bran du Lac — Member of Fire Court; sister to Elyan; married to Lancelot du Lac (knight).  
o Sarah, Anna, Erec, Ywain, Mariam, Dorian — Apprentices in the Fire Court.  
o Brother Dinadan — Priest of the Old Religion.  
o Edward Orkney — Dame; Head of Earth Court (Escetia).  
o Priamus Avoutres — Second of Earth Court (Escetia).  
o Maliasa Bulor — Dame; Head of Water Court (Tintagel).  
o Sarah Hans — Second of Water Court (Tintagel).  
o Dinas Seneschal — Dame; Head of Wind Court (Acestir).  
o Gilli Clarence — Second of Wind Court (Acestir).  
o Hannah Winchelsea — Dame; Head of Lightning Court (Mercia).  
o Sophia Sidhe — Second of Lightning Court (Mercia).

• Round Table Brotherhood- Knights

o Galahad l’Hardi — Noble; Round Table Brotherhood (knight); protector of Uther; third son of the l’Hardi family.  
o Lancelot du Lac — Noble; Lieutenant of the Round Table Brotherhood (knight); married to Gwen and also her protector; second son of the du Lac family.  
o Marrok Logris — Round Table Brotherhood (knight); protector of Godwyn; third son of the Logris family.  
o Urry l’Estrange — Noble; Round Table Brotherhood (knight); protector of Bayard; second son of the l’Estrange family.  
o Balin l’Galdren — Noble; Round Table Brotherhood (knight); protector of Azreal; son of Morganor.  
o Leon Gannes — Captain of the Round Table Brotherhood (knight); protector of Morgana.  
o Percival de Dieu — Noble; Round Table Brotherhood (knight); protector of Bedwyr; son of Pellinore (Camelot).  
o Elyan Bran — Round Table brotherhood (knight); protector of Ysandra; Brother of Guinevere (Gwen) Bran.

• Pict (from the northern most point of Albion, live in the mountains)

o Leda — Woman in Hoel’s clan.  
o Hoel Peredur — Head of Clan.  
o Ban the Knife-Tongue — Fengel in Hoel’s clan.  
o Wendra — Woman in Arrœk’s clan.  
o Hervis the Beardless — Fengel in Hoel’s clan.  
o Shera — Woman in Hoel’s clan.  
o Van — Fengel in Hoel’s clan.  
o Geberan the White-Eyed — Hwata (soothsayer).  
o Selises Arrœk — Head of Clan; warlord.  
o Gauter — Member of the Silent Ones.  
o Silent Ones — Arrœk’s Fengel.

• Druids

o Chiaræ — Mother of Frœdra.  
o Frœdra — Wife of Clègis.  
o Sadok — Nephew of Borre; son of Clègis.  
o Clègis — Brother to Borre.  
o Borre — Leader of Druid camp.

• Hibernia

o Nerecca — Eldest daughter of Drekana.  
o Brodon — son of Æcrania.  
o Frumgar of Hibernia — King of Hibernia.  
o Driant mab Drekana — Son of Drekana; heir and nephew to Frumgar.  
o Æcran mac Laren — Brother to Æcrania (twins); Lord of the Wigend.  
o Vela — Wife of Frumgar.  
o Æcrania mac Laren — Sister of Æcran (twins); Lady of Wigend.  
o Galway — Son of Frumgar and Vela.  
o Gylden — Youngest daughter of Drekana.  
o Drekana — Sister of Frumgar.  
o Seolfora — Middle daughter of Drekana.

• The Fisher King’s Strait

o Crosslem — Servant of the Fisher King.  
o The Fisher King — controls seas between Albion and Hibernia; can command wyverns to a certain degree.  
o Helian — Servant of the Fisher King.

• Others

o Gwaine de Ganis — Merlin’s childhood friend; noble by birth.  
o Reynold Gunter — Merchant; Tintagel ally.  
o Balinor Draca — Merchant; father of Merlin.  
o Plaine de Bawes — Historian; old acquaintance of Kilgharrah’s.  
o Earl — Member of Gwaine’s network.  
o Harry Renowne — second-in-Command to Petit.  
o Juliana de Listinoise — Royal poet (Camelot).  
o Melissa nó Wæter — former member of the Water branch of the Moonlight Court (Tintagel).  
o Petit Fils — Royal Admiral (Camelot).  
o Jeran — Nomad; weaver.  
o Mari — Wife of Jeran; dyer.  
o Jen and Kara — Daughters of Jeran and Mari.  
o Master Morholt Saracen — Mearcung maker; tattooist.  
o Dagonet nó Madela-Camnen — playwright.

   
 **Word Meanings/Explanations**

• Mearcung- marking, a tattoo; members of the Court save money up for this mark. When they have enough or the tattoo is completed, it means they have essentially bought their freedom and are able to leave the Court if the wish and any money they make is theirs. They tend to be big pieces of art on their backs. This tends to take a few years to complete because the Court takes a portion of the person’s earnings.

• Hladan- to draw water; to draw (summon) water to the caster

• Drycræft- sorcery, magic.

• Gewrit- book

• Gewrit Drycræft- Book of Sorcery; Book of Magic; the first book all magic users start off on.

• Spræc- language

• Drycræft Spræc- literal translation is sorcery language; in this it means magical language. Basically, what they say when they work spells.

• Hyldu to se Frod Æfæstness- literal translation is Homage to the Old Religion.

• Geornful Drycræft- Desirous Sorcery

• Draca Hygebend- Dragon heartstrings

• Lifwraþu- protection of life; motto of the knights of the Round Table Brotherhood

• Blæc Beran- the Black Bear; north

• Read Heorot- Red Hart; west

• Grene Hengest – Green Horse; east

• Fealo Leo- Yellow Lion; south

• Wigfruma- War Chief

• Sel Mon- Great One (meant to refer to Kilgharrah being the Great Dragon)

• Wæge- Balance

• Nædre- Snake

• Ar- Copper

• Ceorl- peasant, a sort of bond-servant under the Fengel. They farm the land and pay a tithe for protection.

• Fengel- lord, just under Hoel, they are a warrior class.

• Folcgemot- gathering of people; the gathering of all the Pict tribes.

• Anwig- a duel or challenge fought between two men in a ring of onlookers.

• Mæstling- brass

• Seolfor- silver

• Isern- iron

• Gold- gold

• Hafoc Eage- “Hawk Eye”

• Feoh- money, a type of spiritual credit, often paid for life debts.

• Hwata- soothsayer

• Eardstapa- wanderer


End file.
